Heart of Glass
by Brat-Child3
Summary: Previously "The Lost Year" It's been a year since Kyle completely cut Stan from his life with no explaination, and Stan still can't let go; he believes there's got to be a way back to his heart. But what if he'd never truly been cast out?
1. Lemon Lime

**Authors Note: **Combination of a dream I had and... Well. Meh. Who cares? It reads the story. I need to write humor again, until then...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own South Park.

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**Chapter 1- Lemon Lime.**

My dark bangs keep flying into my face and it's pissing me off. Though I normally hide my eyes from the world beneath my straight, Emo hair, today I'm trying to leave a space open so I have a little window to look at him.

I haven't seen him in nearly a year, and part of me doesn't even want to. Part of me thinks he's a coward; a lying, deceitful, selfish rat bastard with no heart. Not even a cold, black dead one. But the part of me that isn't justifiably angry with him knows better. That part of me knows _him. _

My butt hurts from sitting in this hard chair for so long, and my stomach has long been queasy simply knowing I was going to have to enter this place. It smells like alcohol and sterile bed sheets, which makes me think of blood-drawing needles and only furthers my nausea. I hate hospitals so much that just the sound of nurses rubber soled shoes squeaking against the waxed floor makes the back of my throat burn with rising bile. I swallow it back and make a face at the bitter flavor of my own stomach acids. I must have puked at least three times in the forty minutes I've been sitting here. I've got nothing left to forfeit except the rancid sickness accumulating in the pit of my belly.

I jump at the sound of a vending machine spewing out a soda and peek up through my hair at Wendy as she takes her place in the chair next to mine and holds a lemon-lime can out to me.

"For your stomach," She explains, nudging it at me and smiling when I accept. "Lemon helps it settle."

The can hisses at me as I pop open the silver top. I can see tiny bubbles bursting out of the new hole and sympathize with its rage as I tip it back to drink. I must be thirstier than I thought, because I down half of it in four large gulps. The cold liquid feels good against my hot insides and actually does make me feel slightly less weak.

The truth is, I'm more sick over the thought of being near him again than I am about the hospital or any of the disgusting things inside. I'm afraid of how it's going to feel to be that close to him again.

I hear the _squeak, squeak, squeaking _of a quick nurse approaching and swallow thickly when she stops in front of us.

"One of you can go in now," She informs sternly. "_One."_

Wendy, Kenny and I glance at each other, silently asking who's going to go first.

"Stan," Kenny mumbles behind his folds of brown and orange.

Wendy gives one curt nod. "Stan." She agrees.

"Follow me." The nurse commands.

I feel a cold shiver spear through me, which oddly enough makes me hot with more nausea. I don't know if I can do this, but even as I think that, I feel the coldness of my drink leave my hand and Kenny urging me to follow. My fingers feel numb as I curl them into my palms and dig the tips into my flesh, but I manage to get up and set myself in motion on one flash of courage.

I glance back at Kenny and Wendy. They're worried about me. Worried how I'll handle it; _if _I'll handle it. They both know how much he meant to me, what I went through after all was said and done. They saw how much I cried.

Wendy and I actually had a thing going for a while, but it ended because she liked Kenny better. I was her boyfriend, and yet she was much fonder, turned on and interested in Kenny. Maybe it was the distance I created between us, the fear of losing her how I lost him. All I know is that it ended with a lot of arguments and tears, and that we somehow managed to salvage the friendship.

Kenny, on the other hand, found it necessary to tell me exactly the kind of feelings he was beginning to develop toward me. The only problem with Kenny was the fact that he seemed to like someone new every few weeks. In fact, he had been on a few dates with someone quite recently. Kenny cared for me a whole lot, but like Wendy, he was only a friend. And unfortunately, friends can't always be there for you when you need them.

Him. He was the only one who ever was. Always there.

The nurse leads me to the door and instructs me not to mess with anything, and that I may be startled by his appearance, but just press the red button by the bed if I needed help.

I allow her to walk away, all the while standing just inside the door she had closed behind me and staring down at my shoes against the shiny, white tiles. There was a rather annoying noise coming from the opposite side of the room, and it took me several moments to recognize it as the beep of a heart monitor.

_His_ heart monitor.

It sounds strong and stable, rhythmically assuring there was life inside his still body. Tears collect behind my eyes, making them sting and my vision blur. I try to swallow, but my throat is constricted so tightly with emotion that I nearly choke myself for even attempting such a feat.

I keep my eyes cast downward and squeeze them closed. My minds eye conjures up an image of him stored somewhere in my subconscious; so clear it was almost like I were actually there with him. And he was smiling.

With a deep sigh to instill composure, I look up and for the first time in a long time, straight at Kyle.

There's tubes everywhere, and several large machines recording different wave patterns of God knows what. His arm is bound in a cast and there's a swollen, oozing knot on his temple. I stare at him like a dumb ass, my mouth slightly ajar as my eyes rove over the clear tube pumping extra oxygen into his nose.

Now is the moment I feel any anger toward him completely leave me. Anything that was done, anything that was said, it doesn't matter anymore. It's finally sinking in, the reality of it all.

He could die.

My heart thumps three times for every one beat of his machine, and I can feel it increasing still. Dizziness waves over me, and I grip the handrail along the wall to sturdy myself. I use it for support and guidance as I dragged myself to the chair next to his bedside and all but fall into its sturdy frame. The world is spinning so fast all I can see are colors and I can feel beads of sweat forming along my hairline from the extreme hot and cold I'm feeling all at once.

There's a waste basket next to the chair. I lean over just as I feel my stomach start to convulse and spill mouthful after mouthful of burning acid onto the trash inside. I hiccup a dry sob when all is empty and rinse the taste out with water and one of the Dixie cups stacked near the sink in the adjoining bathroom.

When I settle back down in the chair, I find I'm able to gaze at him through stands of my dark hair without feeling sick. All I can feel now is an overwhelming sense of sadness and fear. I can't even see his breathtaking eyes.

With a shaking hand, I reach out and gingerly cover one of his, careful not to disturb the IV wedge into the back of it. The touch ignites a million familiar feelings in me, and all I can do is cry. For me, for him, for the lost year.

"Kyle," I choke out. "Kyle, you have to wake up." My voice sounds unfamiliar even to me. Lost, broken.

If we didn't have mutual friends, I may have never even knew he was in this situation, hanging on for dear life. It was so cliché. A car accident. Something I never gave much of a thought. One of those 'it only happens to other people' type of things. And now here it is, staring me in the face.

"If you don't wake up-" My words crack and another round of tears practically explode from my eye sockets. "How are we ever going to make things right if you don't wake up?"

All physical worries drowned, I throw my top half on top of him and cry into his stomach.

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_- BratChild3._


	2. Fish Bowl

**Authors Note: **Thank you _so _very much for the reviews! I didn't expect so many or such positive feed back. :) I'm so happy. Here's the second installment.

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**Chapter 2- Fish Bowl.**

Four A.M

I'm sitting on my bed, staring forlornly at the empty fish bowl on the other side of the room. The only thing inside of it is a plastic treasure chest that releases air bubbles into the water- when there's actually water inside of it. But there hasn't been, not in six years.

I was eight years old when I was given a fish that murdered people. I had insomnia for months after I had finally rid myself of the bastard, and developed a phobia of any sort of water creature. My parents (because I swear they're so damn stupid sometimes) didn't understand the concept that I had absolutely no desire for another malicious, gruesome, jackass of a fish and bought me another one. It didn't kill anyone, but _I _killed _it. _Flushed it straight down the toilet first chance I got, _after _going completely nuts and spazzing out on my parents of course.

They took me to the doctor for rabies shots that day.

Thinking on it now, the only reason I kept the fish bowl at all is because of how upset Kyle got at me for flushing it. Now, it doesn't even matter. In a trance, I get up from my bed, snatch up the bowl and toss it out my bedroom window. The glass glints in the moonlight, and I don't even flinch when it hit's the ground and cracks. Destroying it makes me feel better, because it's something I have control of, unlike most everything else in my life.

Like sleep, which I haven't done at all tonight. Not because I don't want to, but because my body won't let me. I'm restless, even though my eyes feel swollen and sore with fatigue. I can't even yawn. All my energy has dissipated into nothingness and I feel like a zombie.

Blinking heavily, only once, the blue orbs in my head linger on the broken fishbowl a few moments longer. I reek of hospital and I can still taste the acid from my stomach on my breath. Inwardly I cringe, but my expression doesn't register it. I swallow thickly, ignoring the way my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth from lack of moisture and tread lightly through my dark room, down the hallway and into the bathroom, in desperate need of a shower.

Once disrobed, I step into the steaming hot water of the shower spray, shivering at the massaging sensation on my back and scalp. Tucking my chin to my chest, I watch the clear liquid stream like a waterfall off my bangs. Goosebumps crop up along my skin until the water begins bringing up my body temperature. Then I tilt my head back, revealing my usually half hidden face to the heavens as my dark bangs are washed out of my face. My eyes slip closed, and the moment they do I regret it, because an image of Kyle seems to be burned onto the back of my eyelids.

Kyle in a hospital bed, helpless and weak. Kyle, ignoring me in the halls. Kyle smiling at me, his eyes shining like stars. Kyle underneath me, moaning in ecstasy.

Between my tightly closed eyelashes, a tear slips through. My fingers slide with frustration through my hair and I grit my teeth as the angry sobs make my insides convulse, over and over again as the tears run more heavily down my cheeks, mingling with the bath water.

Slipping to the bottom of the tub, I hug my knees to my chest and bury my face in them- Missing him, hating him, loving him, hoping to _God _he'll be okay.

* * *

_(1 year, 3 months earlier )_

"Kyle!"

The boy in the green hat, my best friend, turned to face me. His bewilderment vanished into a wide grin when recognition settled in.

"Stan!"

"Kyle!" I cheered again, seconds before bulldozing right into him for a hug and sending us both in a tumble on the ground.

We laughed simultaneously, hugging and wrestling each other to get up all at the same time. Kyle managed to sit up first, beaming a brilliant smile. When I followed suit, I cupped his chin in my hand and brushed a smudge of dirt off his cheek with my thumb. When I didn't pull away, he covered my hand with his and squeezed gently.

"I missed you, Stan." He spoke, soft and feathery.

I nodded, completely captivated with his eyes, how deep and soulful they always looked. Wise beyond his years, and yet so gentle and youthful.

God, I _loved _his eyes.

"Hey, what's that?" His hand fell away from mine, and my hand from his cheek as he pulled down the collar of my shirt and grasped the pendant dangling around my neck.

I held my body as still as possible as the touch sent a violent shiver down my spine, and squeezed my eyes shut until the sensation passed.

"The Star of David?" He looked at me questioningly, the little silver trinket still resting in his fingers.

"What can I say?" I smiled. "I love Jews."

A cute smile crept up his face, then he scoffed affectionately and dropped the charm back onto my chest.

"You got it because you missed me." He decided. Cocking an eyebrow, he crossed his arms and smiled knowingly.

"You're such an egotistic bastard."

But even as I shoved him over, I smiled, knowing full well he was right. How could I spend the entire summer -a whole three months of my life- away from my best friend, who I had been with every single day since I was four years old, and not miss him insanely? When I had seen the Jewish symbol sparkling in the glass case of the Chicago department store, I had been transfixed, the ache of being away from Kyle increased tenfold, and I had to have it. Five minutes later, I walked out of the shop proudly sporting my Hebrew love against my heart.

"And you're so bad at hiding things," He remarked, brushing his index finger down my nose. "You're blushing like your grandma just caught you jacking it."

Nervously, my palm rubbed the top of my opposite arm and I glanced down at the grass we had fell onto. We were facing each other, and the outside of one of my knees was pressed snugly against the outside of his. Back then, I wasn't miserable so I didn't hide behind long bangs, but the bangs I _did_ have were in need of a trim and fell over my brow right above my eyes. Gingerly, Kyle's fingers feathered over my forehead, pushing them to the side, but I kept my eyes downward.

"I wanted to keep you close to my heart." I admitted, daring a glance up at him.

His eyes fogged over with a sort of happy looking sadness and he embraced me a second time, gentler. My eyes closed, reveling in the closeness I was feeling with him.

"Stan, there were fireworks in Israel."

My brow furrowed in confusion. What was he getting at?

"When we first got there," He continued. "it was their independence day." He pulled away from me, smoothing his hands slowly up and down the top of my arms. His eyes bore into mine intently, honestly.

"And I swear, Stan," He whispered, running his hand along my cheek. The simple touch sent warmth and shivers rocketing through me. "as I watched the lights bursting in the air that night, I thought about how it would feel to hold you."

My eyes slipped closed as he leaned forward and kiss my forehead. He embraced me again, and I snaked my arms around his waist, taking in his warmth and comfort.

"I was afraid we'd grow apart this summer." I found myself confessing.

"No, never." His arms gave an extra tight squeeze before releasing me. "We'll always be best friends, Stan."

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_(Present)_

My eyelids spring open, and I feel angrier than I have in a long time.

He lied to me… He _lied _to me. One of the few people I ever really trusted and he betrayed it.

With renewed energy, I stand, grinding my teeth and shivering blindly at the numbing coldness. I've used all the hot water daydreaming of the past.

As quick as possible, I shampoo my hair and soap up my body, happy when I finally shut off the water and wrap myself in the plush, peach towel hanging on the rack. I clutch it with my fingers and ball my fists underneath my chin, then race as fast as I can to my bedroom to towel off. The elastic of my boxers snaps against my moist skin. It stings slightly, but I like the pain. It helps me remember that I _am _human, no matter how badly people treat me or how devoid of emotions I feel.

"And Kyle is a bastard," I tell the walls as I comb down my hair and hide once again from my room, my family, the world.

_I don't want him to die,_ I think and climb into my bed. _I want him to be okay._

"But why should I be there for him when he abandon me with a broken heart?"

… _Because even if he doesn't care about you, you still care about him._

"He laughed carelessly with his new friends and forgot all about me. He knew how much I was hurting and he just didn't care."

I pulled my blanket over my mouth and nose, blinking out slow tears. I could feel my heart breaking all over again.

… _And he doesn't even care._

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_-BratChild3_


	3. Best Friends

**Authors Note: **omg, these chapters are short, I'm so sorry. Longer next time, I promise. And, more flash back thingys about what went on with them.

Reviews please! And thanks to you nine who reviewed the last chapter, I love you!

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**Chapter 3- Best Friends.**

Sparky wakes me up at five- fifty the next morning.

My head is pounding and my neck is sore. Whatever sleep I got wasn't very restful, and I'm starting to regret sleeping at all.

I push Sparky out of my face and trip over him when I climb out of bed. He trails slowly in front of me all the way to the bathroom, and part of me wants to kick him, but of course I wouldn't; I'm too much of a non-violent animal lover.

Goddamnit.

I relieve myself, and then wash my hands and splash cool water on my face. Gauging my reflection in the mirror for a moment, I realize I look like some sort of crap a cat puked up. But that's okay, because I have no one to impress. What's not okay, however, is my breath, which tastes like cardboard and old slim jims. I don't understand that because I don't even like slim jims. I guess it's my own unique flavor of morning breath.

_I don't ever remember Kyle having morning breath, _I think while swishing florescent green mouthwash from cheek to cheek.

I spit in the sink and then head down the stairs, pausing only to slip on pants and shoes, (I had slept in a shirt) and head out into the early morning.

It's light out, but the sun hasn't yet broken above the tips of the surrounding mountains. The air is crisp and cool, and everything looks fresh and new.

… _So why do I feel like such crap?_

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I swallow hard and head off with no particular destination in mind. Sparky follows happily behind me, falling back to piss on every tree we pass then quickly catching up again.

I can remember fragments of a dream I had, but they're fleeting and quickly slipping further away. I mostly only remember how it made me feel; Sad, alone.

Starks Pond comes into view in the distance, and I squint my eyes to better see it. It triggers more feelings, and I can remember a body wrapped in black plastic being pulled from the water. The bag is sliced open, and I see Kyle's stiff blue face and glazed-over, dead eyes inside of it.

My stomach cramps and I feel ill, wishing now I hadn't forced myself to remember that dream.

I don't want Kyle to die, but he could very well be dead right now, and I don't even know it. At the moment, I don't want to know, because I can see his smile in my minds eye, and it's beautiful.

An agonized moan escapes my throat like a sob, and I turn from the pond and the memory of the nightmare and run, leaving Sparky in the dust. I'm not worried about him, because he always finds his way home. I just need to leave, to go, to get away. From everything, from South Park, from the memories…

…From Kyle.

My legs pump faster and faster and I feel like my lungs are about to burst, but I keep going, hearing the blood pounding in my temples and adrenalin coursing my veins. I realize, for a frantic moment, that I'm unable to see, and then, just like the sudden break of clouds during a summer thunder storm, tears burst out of my eyes, flooding my cheeks with liquid despair.

I trip over the cement of a stoop and catch myself with a loud thump against the door of the house. I look up at it and, to my complete horror, recognize the residence. Blindly I had ran to get away from Kyle and instead ran straight to his home.

My breath starts to slow when the door shoots open and I jump back in reflex, gauging Sheila's questioning expression. She's wearing a robe and looks like she hasn't slept in years. Dark circles adorn the delicate skin under her eyes, which are puffy and red. In all my years, I have never seen Mrs. Broflovski look so helpless.

"Stanley," She says, delicately and weakly.

She probably wonders what I'm doing here. After all, I haven't stepped foot in this house for a long time. The familiar smell wafts out from behind her, the smell of fresh laundry and leftover food, filling me with even more emotions. My lower lip trembles involuntarily as my vision starts to blur again. I try to hold it back, try to speak, and break down when this women I've know since childhood as the biggest bitch in the world embraces me.

"Oh, Stanley," She says again, this time the heartache has crept into her voice.

I find an odd sense of motherly comfort in her arms, and I indulge myself in it. Her clothes smell just like Kyle's. It makes my face screw up with more tears.

… And we cry together.

Minutes go by. Five… Ten… Fifteen…

Mrs. Broflovski is the first to let go, another event of strange in itself. She dabs her eyes with a plain handkerchief and sniffles something to herself in Hebrew. I never heard any of the Broflovski's speak the language regularly, only in spurts now and then when one of them was extremely emotional about something. Sadness, anger…

…sexual ecstasy.

"Would you like some breakfast?"

I avert my eyes from the carpet to look at the short, redheaded woman before me. I've never seen her look so kindly before, but at the same time I can still see the same determinedness behind her eyes.

"You've gotten so thin since I saw you last." She continues before I have a chance to answer.

I enter the kitchen silently just as she's pouring juice into a glass and sets it on the table. I don't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't had an appetite at all, for a long time, because of her son.

"Drink that," she says, gesturing toward the orange liquid filled glass.

Instead of arguing, I oblige. She misses fussing over Kyle, I think, and this is somehow making her feel a little less empty.

"Everyone's still asleep," She informs. "I'll call them down as soon as everything's ready. Afterward we'll be going to see Kyle." She pauses. "Oh, my poor Bubbalah."

I peek at her over the rim of the cup as I down the entire thing in four gulps. I hadn't realized I was that thirsty. Or maybe it was just because I felt a lump of emotion rise in my throat, and drinking something cold really fast helps to keep it down.

"Um," I manage to croak out, then clear my throat. "I'm not really all that hungry. Would it be okay if I- that is, would you mind if I went up," I clear my throat again, picking at the tablecloth. "- to Kyle's room and just… just-"

"Of course." She smiles warmly, though it's watered down by her own sadness.

Weakly, I manage a fake one in return and push myself away from the table.

Once in Kyle's room with the door closed securely behind me, I try to keep from crying and bite my lip, tasting blood. The small area between these four walls is so familiar to me, even after all this time. Taking my time, I wander about, running my fingers lightly over his belongings- Books, clothes, videos, CDs, blankets.

The metal handle on his desk feels thick and cold as I slide it open, and the fresh scent of the Bishop wood it's made of puffs into my face. On one side of the drawer is a stack of pristine papers and a single, black, fine point pen. On the other side is a thick black journal with golden tipped pages. I run my index finger over the engraving of a feather pen on the cover as my eyes land on a small tin canister.

Curious, I lift it out of the drawer and pry the lid off. From inside I pull out a long golden chain with half a heart charm dangling from the end. '_Best' _is engraved into it.

Closing my eyes, I squeeze it tight in my palm. He kept his half of our friendship necklace. Why, I can't be sure. Was there a little part of him that never let go? Did he just forget it was even there in the first place?

Mine is buried deep beneath the soil and grass below my bedroom window.

_Like it matters, _My brain reminds me angrily.

I stuff it back inside and grab up the journal. Hoping to find some answers inside, I make myself comfortable on the bed and open it up.

I scan the page, blink, skip to another, rub my eyes, blink again.

I can't make it out, because the entire thing is written in Hebrew.

"_FUCK!"_

The journal hit's the wall with a bag and I throw myself onto the pillow and sob. The smell of Kyle's shampoo is strong on the material, and the scent slowly soothes me to a deep, dreamless sleep.

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_-BratChild3 _


	4. Red Hair

**Authors Note: **Yay, this one is longer! Thanks, reviewers! ... And I see you, lurkers. ;)

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**Chapter 4- Red Hair**

The first few seconds after you wake is pure bliss. For only a moment, everything's right with the world, because you're not thinking. You're spared from whatever heartache is weighing you down, then suddenly it crashes all around you and you're yanked back into reality; Your own personal hell.

As my eyes open slowly, the familiar sight of Kyle's room greets me. Sunlight pours through the window onto my face, and for a moment, as I snuggle further into his blanket, I'm at peace.

Then I flop onto my stomach and realize that Kyle isn't next to me. With a frown, I lean up on my forearms and stare at the empty space beside me.

There's a single strand of red hair weaved among the tangle of sheets, shining in the light.

…I remember everything.

My frown deepens, and I feel my lip quiver. I wont let myself cry. Not again. Instead I bury my face tiredly in his pillow and breathe deep. It's painful, just to live.

I twist onto my side and peer at the large, green numbers on his alarm clock. 3:43 p.m. I had slept almost the whole day away.

And it felt _good._

Turning onto my back, I yawn and stretch my arms above my head, then let them fall onto my stomach.

Kyle would probably feel violated if he knew I was in his room, let alone sleeping in his bed. I have no right to be here, no right to place a finger on anything of his. We aren't friends anymore, because he hates me.

The more I think about this, the guiltier I feel. I had been selfish for doing such a thing.

… I just miss him so badly.

Sitting up, my eyes search around, taking everything in.

It's so quiet, and everything is just how he left it. Somehow, it makes it feel sad, haunted almost. I climb out of the bed when I spy the journal abandon on the other side of the room.

_Thank God, _I think as I scoop it up. _I couldn't read it._

If I had, I would have felt even worse. We're nothing to each other anymore. Strangers at best, enemies at worst.

I smooth the papers down and close the heavy cover. I hug it to my chest, kiss the top and return it to the desk drawer. Before exiting, clutching the door handle, I stare into the room again.

"… I'm sorry." I whisper, and pull the door closed.

* * *

I creep into my parents room and pull out a green and silver photo album when I get home. The queen sized bed groans under my weight as I make myself comfortable and begin flipping through the glossy pages; backwards.

I look miserable, hiding behind a cloak of dark clothes and long bangs. In every picture, I notice, I'm not smiling. At the same time, though my image is dreary, my expression isn't. There's nothing there. My face is blank and my eyes are void of life. I'm haunted by Kyle's spirit, just like his room.

Haunted, empty, lifeless. I'm nothing but a vacant space without him. At least, my soul is nothing.

Flipping many pages toward the front of the album, my expression changes suddenly, and I look full of love and life and happiness. There's practically a light emitting from my eyes, bright and youthful and _oh so _in love.

I just hadn't realized it then.

In more pictures than not, Kyle is with me. Smiling, laughing… loving.

The snapshot that catches my undivided attention is one of me and him on the beach. I can see my other friends in the background; Cartman with a bag of chips, and Kenny with nothing on but a pair of orange board shorts and his hand in the chip bag, smiling innocently at the larger boy, who looks like he's about to pummel him.

The main focus of the image makes the feeling of emptiness I'm harboring multiply and spread all the way to my toes, like a rapidly growing disease.

Like our friends, Kyle and I are both sporting nothing but swim shorts. His blue, mine green. A switch of color for us. I can remember that day vividly, and the moment of the picture especially. My mom wanted to get a picture of us. A _nice_ picture, as she put it.

"No bunny ears, no sticking out tongues, and for God sakes Kenny, no finger!"

Kyle decided to be cute and, fooling around, gave me a rough hug. It caught me off balance, and because I had nothing else to grab for support, I grabbed his naked waist and we tumbled to the ground. Mom snapped a picture, and it came out just as we had fallen, Kyle on top of me, his eyes closed and a smile on his face, and our arms around each other.

Back then we were still kids, prepubescent ten year olds and didn't think anything of it. Today, as I look down on it, I see something more than playfulness there. I see two best friends falling in love as the years go by.

"Stanley,"

I jump at the sound of my name and a hand falling softly on my shoulder. The album falls to the ground.

"I just heard about Kyle," My mom reaches down to retrieve the book. Instead of giving it back to me, she peers into the page. Worry lines crease up the skin of her otherwise smooth forehead.

"Oh, Sweetie," She breathes, setting the pictures aside and wrapping her arms around me. "Are you alright? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I don't return the embrace. I sit, blankly.

"I'm fine."

"Do you want me to take you to go see him? Sheila says that he's allowed vis-"

"I've already seen him."

I feel her freeze and stiffen. "…When?"

She starts stroking my hair, petting me like an animal. She's trying to soothe me, but I can feel my blood starting to boil. I grit my teeth.

"Yesterday."

She pauses again, then resumes her petting.

_I'm not a fucking dog, Mom!_

"I can take you to see him any time."

"I don't want to see him." I snap, literally shaking with rage now.

I don't know why I'm so angry with her, but all she's doing is continuing to fuel the fire. I just want her to go away. I want _everyone _to go away.

"I understand."

_Stroke, stroke, stroke…_

"No." I push away from her, pointing a finger at her nose. "No, you _don't _understand!"

She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

"I don't _want _to see him!"

Mom holds her hands up in surrender, putting on her "_I'm staying calm so you'll stay calm" _face.

"Stanley," She tries, continuing on only after making sure I wont have a conniption fit. "The thing is, sweetie, they don't know-"

"-If he'll live." I finish crossly. "Yeah, I know."

It's obvious she's perplexed at my anger. I can't say I'm any less shocked by my outburst than her.

…_But I feel so mad. So helpless. _

"I think it's a good idea-" She points her finger at me when I try to cut her off again. I roll my eyes and cross my arms. "for you to see him as much as you can. I know it's hard to see him that way, but think of how it must feel for him."

My jaw drops in astonishment. How it feels for _him? _Should I really give a flying fuck how it feels for him when he was _happy _he broke my heart? When he rubbed it in my face by openly showing the world how goddamn wonderful he felt to be rid of me? How he fucking _flaunted _it!

_No!_

My mom tries to guilt trip me further, completely unaware of the growing frustration inside me.

"Even though he isn't conscious, many doctors believe a person in a comma is still aware of the people around them. Some can even hear you when you speak to them."

She stands, walking over to me and placing her hands on my shoulders. Her thumbs massage in deep circles. I'm so angry I'm starting to see red, and she still doesn't notice.

"Some people don't wake up because they don't feel they have anything worth fighting for. He needs you now. You were best friends."

I jerk away from her touch. "The key word there is "were", _Mom!" _I practically scream at her. She reels back like I had just punched her. "We're not friends anymore! It doesn't matter if he dies tomorrow or in eighty years, because whenever he does, he's going to die knowing I give less of a shit for him than he does for me!"

"Stanley Marsh!" She hollers as I turn to leave the room. Clearly, I've lit her fuse. "You come back here right now, young man!"

"I'm not your fucking dog!"

* * *

I keep my eyes focused on the sky while I walk down the street, my hands in my pockets and my portable MP3 player blasting on repeat in my ears. The sounds of "_I feel so" _By the Boxcar Racers soothes the emotions inside me, making me feel better that something, even a song, relates to how I'm feeling.

Mad, angry, callous, lost, confused, cheap, used, unfaithful.

… All the words that make up me.

I close my eyes as the breeze picks up, inhaling deeply. It feels good to stretch my lungs to their full capacity. I hold in for a few seconds, then exhale slow and steadily.

I resume walking, and immediately trip. With my hands in my pockets, I'm unable to catch myself, and my face cracks against the sidewalk.

"_Shit! Fuck! Goddamnit!" _I wail as loud as I can.

My headphones fall off when I stand, and I can feel warm blood leaking out of my nose, but I ignore it all and begin beating the crap out of the wall of the store building.

"Fucking piece of shit! I'll fucking kill you, you stupid gay ass, shit faced bitch!"

I don't know what or who I'm yelling at, I just _am. _I'm mad at the world, I'm mad at life.

Grabbing a nearby trashcan, I throw it against the wall, then start pounding it with my fists, over and over and over…

"Holy _shit, _Stan, what the hell crawled up your ass and ate your balls from the inside out?"

I whirl around toward Cartman, grab him by the collar of his shirt and slam him against the wall.

"_What _the _fuck _did you say to me!"

"Aye! Let go of me, asshole!" He protests. "If I knew you were a goddamn psycho I wouldn't have tripped you!"

"You," I hiss venomously. "_You _tripped me? Why the fuck did you do that!"

"I was trying to get your attention!"

"You could have tapped my shoulder or something!"

"I thought _this _was just as effective!" He defends himself. "And way more amusing!"

I loosen my grip and slam him against the wall a second time, making him choke on his own saliva. "Look at my nose you bastard!"

"Your nose!" He sputters. "Look at what you did to your goddamn hands!"

I look down at my fistfuls of Cartman shirt and release him suddenly. He sinks to the ground, and I hold up my hands for inspection. They're torn and raw, and there's tiny pieces of gravel glued to the blood.

"Damnit, Stan. I am _so_ seriously." He curses at the blood prints on his collar.

I sink to the curb, staring at my palms, and burst into yet another round of sobs. I bury my face in my knees.

"Oh, here we go," Cartman grunts as he gets up. "The little pussy is going to cry now."

My shoulder's shake violently, and I can barely breathe, let alone defend myself. In fact, I don't even want to.

"Stan?" He growls, giving my side a light kick. He's silent a moment, still. "Stan?" He asked again, sounding more concerned this time.

I cry harder and feel him slide down next to me.

"Stop crying, Stan." He pleas, sounding uncomfortable. "I-if you stop, I'll give you a cream puff."

I hear a bakery bag crinkling as he waves it next to me.

"… Okay, how 'bout two then?"

"I don't want a God damned cream puff!" I cry.

"Stan, seriously, what the hell is wrong?"

"Everything! Everything is wrong! Just go to hell, Cartman! Go to hell!"

I hear him set the bag between his knees. Minutes go by, and I think he's left, until he speaks again.

"This is about the Jew, isn't it?"

Always. Everyone _always _associates all of my emotions with Kyle! Ever since we were little, if I was by myself the first thing everyone would ask was "where is Kyle?". If he didn't come to school, they would ask _me _where he was. I haven't spoken to Kyle in a year, and the first thing Fat Ass thinks when he sees me emotionally disturbed is that it _must _be about Kyle.

"Why aren't you wallowing by his bedside?" He continues.

"Because I hate him!"

"Ha!" He laughs, mockingly. "Hahaha!"

I lift my angry, bloody, swollen face from my knees and glower at him. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

"You don't hate Kahl." He pulls out a cream puff and starts devouring it. "You're just pissed."

"I'm more than pissed."

"You're pissed and you're a whiny little pussy."

I stomp on his foot and he yelps, spraying cream out of his mouth.

"I'm going to kill you one day, Stan." His voice is calm and sane, which makes it all the more frightening.

"So go on and do it, smartass." I wipe some of Cartman's treat off my shoe. "I'd be better off that way."

"Now you see," he sighs. "That just takes all the fun out of it." He stuffs the other half of the puff in his mouth. "You should go see him."

I finally look at him, disgust written all over my bloody, tear-streaked face. "You sound like my Mom."

"Seriously," He goes on. "You've been such a douche ever since he decided to show his true Jew colors and fuck you over. He wouldn't listen to you before, right? Now's your chance to tell him what a dirty, scheming asshole he is and he can't do anything but lay there and listen."

I blink. Actually, he has a pretty good point there. One that I hadn't even considered. There was so much I never got to say, so many things I couldn't get out because he just wouldn't let me. And now, _now _is my chance. Now he _has _to listen to me.

"Why aren't you taking advantage of that?" I wonder.

Cartman licks chocolate off his fingers and dives in the bag for another. "Already have." He grins at me, a mixture of delight and malice laced in, and holds out a cream puff. I stare down at it, feeling my stomach growl.

"Take it, you're starting to look as malnourished as Kenny."

I hesitate, then obligue. I really am hungry. "Thanks."

"Don't get used to it."

My teeth sink into the dessert, and for the first time in a really long time, I actually _look _at Cartman. Sometimes I think he's not so bad, even though he is practically the biggest asshole in the whole world.

"Why are you being so nice? I thought you hated me."

He doesn't even flinch, simply continues to lick the chocolate coating off the top of his food. "I hated you because you always took Kahl's side.He was always in the way."

I pinch a piece of cream out of the pastry and suck it off my finger.

"You remember that time we played in that boat, just you and me?"

"Yeah," My full mouth muffles my answer.

"… That was kewl."

Licking my lips, I glance up at him. "You don't hate me anymore?"

A familiar scowl crossed his face. "I don't _like _you." Then, it softens again. "Ever since Kahl stopped getting in the way, I've felt like I have a real friend."

For the first time in days, I give a slight smile. "We _are _friends."

Cartman seems to think this over a moment, then scoffs. "God, what a fag."

Huffing in exasperation, I stand. "Thanks for the snack."

"Go see him."

I turn to him once again.

"He deserves to know how much you hate him."

Hesitating, I ask the question that's been weighing on my mind practically my whole life.

"Cartman? I was just wondering… Do you hate Kyle because he's a Jew, or do you hate Jew's because Kyle is one?"

Crumbling up the now empty bag, he tosses it into the waste basket I had permanently dented. "I've hated Kahl and Jews my whole life." He shrugs. "It's kinda like the chicken and the egg."

* * *

_-BratChild3_


	5. Blood Drops

**Authors Note: **Thank you for the encouragement. This has more things going on. Hopefully you'll like.

NO THIS IS NOT THE END.

* * *

**Chapter 5- Blood drops.**

My stomach has that _hospital _feeling even before I enter the building, but there's a determination in my step that wasn't there before.

_I _have the advantage. He can't run from me this time, and that alone is enough to make me feel more empowered then I have in over a year. I can yell at him. I can rant and rave and tell him what a fuck up he is. What a selfish bastard he's become. I can tell him I don't give a crap about him. I can cut him down to size and make him feel even more miserable than he ever made me feel.

And there's not one damn thing he can do about it.

I don't put on the "_visitor_" sticker, but I do sign in at the front desk. The ICU is on the top floor, which makes no sense to me at all. If someone's in need of intensive care, shouldn't it be on the bottom floor, where they can immediately be rushed in and taken care of? Then again, that _is _what emergency rooms are for. Maybe they want to make sure all the gross things are kept far away from people with intolerant stomachs, like mine. If that's the case, someone seriously needs to talk to the management about the _Infectious disease _rooms on the first floor, located conveniently nearby the cafeteria.

Only in South Park.

The obese woman behind the desk of the ICU unit smiles politely at me as I step off the elevator. I force a tight grin that all but slips away when I step past her desk.

"Excuse me, where are you going?" She demands, the fake sweetness in her voice ever present.

"Broflovski." I announce, clipped and curt, almost like a solider introducing himself to a new colonel, and continue down the corridor to room 135.

I swing the door open and barge right on inside like there's not a person that could die any second on the other side. Gerald and Sheila are there, and Ike is sitting in the very far corner, biting his nails. They all jump at my intrusion, but the parental units grin sadly a moment later.

How can they all look so fond of me, I wonder? Don't they realize how much Kyle hates me? Are everyone's skulls so thick they _still _haven't grasped the concept that whatever friendship we had has long since dissolved?

"Hello Stanley," Sheila is, of course, the first to speak.

She stands, blotting her eyes with the same plain handkerchief she had this morning, and embraces me. Closing my eyes, I let the smell of Broflovski laundry detergent fill my senses again, the same kind Kyle had always smelled of. It really is one of my favorite scents in the whole world.

"We sent Ike to Kyle's room to get you this morning," Gerald says as I pull away from his wife's motherly hold on me. "But he said you were out cold."

I glance at Ike, who hasn't made a noise. His beady eyes collide with mine. He's still munching his nails, and looks tired and scared. Kyle is his Superman; his hero. What happens to a kids faith in life when his hero falls? Do they ever believe in miracles again?

"We decided not to wake you after all," Sheila fills in for her husband. "You looked so exhausted when you came in, I figured you could use the rest."

I nod slightly, once, then swallow. "… Thanks."

My bangs fall like a curtain over my eye. I feel badly for the Broflovski's, but I don't for Kyle. I still want to yell at him.

"Stan," Gerald puts his hand on my shoulder. I hadn't even realized he stood. "Would you like some time with Kyle?"

Again I nod, still feeling all the frustration built up inside me.

_Leave, _I think, _far away so I can let this out._

"It's getting late," He decides, looking through the setting darkness of the window. "We need to go home and rest. Would you like us to wait here for you? Give you a ride home?"

_No. It's going to take me all night to scream all my emotions out at him. _

"Stan?"

"I'm okay." My throat is dry again and it's really starting to annoy me.

"Come see us anytime," Mrs. Broflovski insists. "I can even make up Kyle's bed for you. Kyle would like that."

_You know nothing. _

All three of them kiss Kyle's cheek before leaving, and when the door shuts behind them, I let out my breath.

_Finally you're going to listen to me. Finally… you selfish, uncaring bastard._

Calculating the time from the beep of his heart monitor, I wait a full three minutes with my eyes glued to a spot of dirt on my shoe. I want to make sure they're gone. During that three minutes, I reflect on Cartman's words, readying myself for what I want to say. My palms are sweating, and it stings the raw skin there, reminding me of how much pain he caused me. I make fists, digging my nails into the tender flesh and grit my teeth against the sensation.

_Just make it stop hurting…_

I squeeze so hard I start shaking. Harder and deeper until it feels numb and wet. Then I relax. When I look down, I can see new blood pooling around my fingertips. My fingers uncurl themselves and stretch out slowly. I bleed, but I don't feel alive.

I blink, and when I open my eyes, they fall on Kyle. It makes me feel angry how comfortable he looks. How calm, uncaring, unaware.

Like always.

Everyone else is in pain. Everyone else is heartbroken, shedding tears because they love him. And what does he do? He just… does _nothing_.

"Kyle…" It's a deadly whisper, and I advance toward him slowly, like a predator hunting his prey.

"What the hell are you doing? I know you can hear me you twisted fuck! You listen to me and you'd better listen good!"

The emotions are rising, in my voice, in my blood, in my mind.

"I don't understand you! What the hell is wrong with you? This is your best friend talking, Kyle! Your best _fucking _friend!"

I kick the leg of the chair by his bed and let it hit the wall. The force makes my toes tingle painfully.

"Have you found a new best friend, Kyle? Huh? Someone to listen to you bitch about how angry things make you? Someone to stand up for you and make you feel better when Cartman has you by the balls? Did you replace me that easily, Kyle!"

My arm swipes across a side table where a few Dixie cups are sitting, knocking them over and allowing the remaining water to splash out.

"Do they fucking know you inside out like I do! Do they know what makes you tick? What to say to make you feel better?"

I lean over him, my face inches from his. "How to make you shutter with ecstasy?"

Violently, I push myself back up. "I see you Kyle and those people aren't your fucking friends! What are you doing now? Spending all your time studying, is that it? Being the well-bred Jewish boy your mom always wanted you to be? That's not you, Kyle! That's not who you fucking are! Where'd Kyle go, you fucking dick!"

I rip the sheet off the empty bed next to his and throw it to the floor. My vision is now all but covered in a thick blanket of rushing tears.

"I hate you, Kyle! God, I hate you for breaking my heart!"

Falling into the chair I had kicked, I realize my fingers are twisted tightly into my hair, and my scalp is burning from the abuse. That's not even the tip of the iceberg as far as what I want to say. There's so much more, so many other things, but I can feel my anger melting as I look at him. And soon, it's gone.

"Kyle," I choke out, reaching a hand out and covering his. "Kyle…"

I lean forward, closer toward him and bow my head. Each of my fingers link with his, and I squeeze tight. There's a triple beep of the heart monitor, only once, before returning to normal.

_He knows I'm here._

"… I hate you for being so amazing that I can't get over you."

Tenderness. Where did this come from? How did he kill the hate I needed to get out, just by lying there?

"Kyle? Remember last summer?" Bending forward even further, now at the edge of my chair, my forehead rests against his. "… Remember how it felt?"

_(1 year earlier)_

"… Kyle?" My voice was uncertain as it bellowed through trees. "Kyle, where are you?"

It was strange. Since he had gotten back from spending most of the summer in Israel, and I had gotten back from my crappy ass vacation in Chicago, things had been different between us, and not in a bad way. I had fretted all summer long, worried that the time apart would make us _grow_ apart. A person can change completely over the course of a season, especially in a new setting, with new people.

But from the moment he had returned my worries were diminished. If we were close before, we were now surgically attached at the hip. At the risk of sounding like a total fag, we had even held hands that first day, all the way back to his house, where we stayed up all night long laughing and telling each other what a bad time we had that summer.

… And now I couldn't find him anywhere.

We were suppose to be meeting Cartman and Kenny at the movie theater, but Sheila said he had left, alone, a little while before I had shown up. I checked a few places, then decided that maybe he just wanted to be alone for a while.

As I walked idly around South Park, no destination in mind, I came to a cluster of trees with a path through the middle. I followed it along until something threw me off. I had thought I heard someone crying, but the more distinctive sound was a _clink, clink, clink._

Curious, I followed the noise off the path into a small clearing of wild grass.

_Clink… clink… clink…_

The noise was slowing down and getting softer, but the faint sobs and sniffles were persistent.

"Hello?" I called. "Are you okay?"

Silence.

"… Stan?"

"Kyle?" My voice echoed. "Kyle, where are you?"

"How did you find me?"

I followed his voice through the trees. "Intuition." I joked half-heartedly as I came upon him. He had steel hammer and dagger in his hands, and tears in his eyes. "What are you doing?"

He used the back of the hand clutching the dagger to swipe across his eyes, then dropped both tools to the ground and leaned against the tree. Both hands were pinned behind his thighs on the bark, and he kept his face downward.

"Dude, Wha-"

"Do you remember," He cut me off, so soft I almost couldn't hear. "When we were seven, and we kissed each other, just because we wanted to know what it felt like?"

"Yeah. I remember."

Closing his eyes, he sighed. "Do you remember last winter, you asked me if I ever liked another guy, and I said that… that sometimes I wondered what it would be like to kiss you again?"

"…Yeah." He stayed quiet. "I remember that, too." I filled in.

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyelids tight, a habit I swear he picked up from me. Then he stepped away from the tree, revealing a traditional heart carving in the bark, complete with both our names securely inside.

His hand fell away from his face, and his eyes opened, yet remained shamefully toward the ground. "I wasn't joking."

My heart increased drastically, making me feel lightheaded as I glanced between the carving in the wood and the shamed, heart-stricken expression on my best friends face.

I wasn't sure what I was feeling. I know I was shocked, no matter how close I felt with him, I never expected him to feel anything like _that. _This was Kyle.

"I'm sorry!" He wailed, obviously distressed by my silence.

"No. Kyle!" I grabbed him by the arm as he tried to pass me to leave, and swung him into me. I felt my own tears welling up as we clung to each other, but I did what I could to swallow them back. I needed to be strong now. For him.

"It's okay," I promised as my slow tears slid silently onto his hair and shoulder.

He sobbed, took a deep breath, "Ani ohev otcha," He cried, dissolving into more sobs. "Ani ohev otcha…"

_(present)_

My tears drip on him now, onto his IV tapped hand as I press it to my cheek.

"Ani ohev otcha." I whisper, just before the door swings open and a nurse pokes her witchy nose in.

"Ahem," She clears her throat. "There's some other people here who'd like to see him. Visiting hours are almost over."

I don't have the strength to glare, instead, I drop a kiss onto his hand.

As I approach the waiting room, I hear giggles grow louder. Turning the corner, I spot none other than Wendy and Kenny, tickling each other flirtatiously.

"You can go in." I announce, and they both immediately spring to their feet.

Looking at each other like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Wendy swallows. "Go on."

Kenny glances at me, then back to Wendy and nods. Wendy and I don't look at each other until he disappears.

"Stan-"

"Don't worry about it." I snap. "We're over anyway."

"Stan, I still love you."

I close my eyes and laugh through the tears I shed for Kyle, but it lacks true humor. "Sure you do."

"It's true!" She screams.

"How many times have you slept with him?"

Outrage overcomes her eyes. "You're totally missing the point!"

"How many?"

Wendy purses her lips. "Why are you asking me this? You know you aren't going to be happy unless the answer is zero."

"Tell me."

Sighing, she eases onto a chair. "A couple. Maybe not literally two."

I shake my head, keeping my sigh quiet, and walk away.

_No one could ever love me like you did, Kyle._

* * *

_-BratChild3_


	6. Jealousy

**Authors Note: **OMG! An actual update! Had to up the rating. Heh... Just don't have it in me to right nicely rated things I guess. :P

* * *

**Chapter 6: Jealousy.**

I hate it when I feel. I hate it more than I hate hospitals and the morning sun. It's an inconvenience and it messes with my head. Especially my feelings for one, Kyle Broflovski.

I hate him, but my hate stems from hurt and my hurt from love. In conclusion my hate equals love, or my love equals hate. Or maybe my love equals hurt which equals hate. Or my hate equals hurt which equals…

_I don't know!_

I. Don't. Know. And I'm tired of trying to figure it out. I'm tired of trying to monitor my feelings, push some back and bring some forward. Let some out and hold some in. I need to break free from them all, even from my own mind.

I can't trust myself.

Not when Kyle is involved. Not anymore, because I've been sitting here holding his cool hand in my clammy one for days. I was here yesterday and I know I'll be here again tomorrow, no matter how hard I fight with myself to just _stay away. _It's as impossible as placing a cupcake in front of Cartman and expecting him not to touch it. It's scientifically impossible. It goes against all logical thought and function of normality.

It makes me hate him even more to know he has this uncanny spell on me even without opening his eyes. All he has to do is simply _exist, _and I can feel myself falling in love all over again, a little more every second.

He looks slightly older than the last time I was this close to him. Even his shoulders have widened a bit from last summer and his body has filled out from being on the slightly scrawny side. I want to run my fingers over his new physique, feel it, cuddle it.

I wonder how much he's change on the inside. Is my Kyle still in there somewhere? Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe, if I'm lucky, this will snap him out of whatever crazy funk he's been in.

Yesterday I took advantage of my free access to Kyle's room and retrieved his half of our best friends necklace, but not to put on him. Instead, I fastened the clasp around my own neck, letting it fall right against my heart. When I got back home, I tore Mom's garden shed apart until I found a shovel and got to work digging up my own from underneath my bedroom window. I can't exactly put it on him- Hospital safety rules. So instead, I uncurl his hand (the one nobody holds) and coil it into his palm, then close his fingers around it.

We are a part of each other.

There's a loud knock on the door and then it flies open. I don't even bother to look. I'm so used of the nurses coming in and out that I barely notice them anymore. But this time, light footsteps creep up behind me and a hand settles on my shoulder.

"Stan?"

My fingers remain interlocked between Kyle's. I never want to let go.

"Dude, hey…" Kenny kneels in front of me, looking up with his big, bright eyes. He rests his arm across my knee and lays his chin on it. "Haven't seen you for a while."

I swallow thickly, feeling my eyes lock hard on Kyle's face. Kenny has a charm no one can resist, and I know if I let him he'll pull me out of here, and all I want is to be with Kyle. But Kenny places his hand on top of mine and pulls it away from the green-eyed boys'. His fingers slide between mine. They're thinner than Kyle's, and warm. So warm.

"Stan? C'mon dude, look at me. Please?" The calloused skin of his other hand cups my chin and gently turns it to face him. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Please?" He tries again.

Deep breath... Long exhale... I open them.

He smiles carefully, almost like he's afraid he'll scare me off. Sandwiching my hand between his, he caresses his palm against the top of mine.

Kenny is… _beautiful. _

He flicks his head to nudge a stray piece of blonde hair out of his eye and focuses more intently on me. "How are you doing, slugger?"

Something about his quiet, caring tone of voice makes a lump of emotion swell up in my throat. He's always been so _there _for me. Never constantly like Kyle, but always when I really need it the most. Through this whole thing, he's the only one who's understood, who's been there for me, who hasn't lost his patience and told me to just get over it already. I want so badly to express how much he means to me, but find time and time again that I'm unable to. Emotionally, Kyle has me crippled.

"Come on," He pats my hand. "Lets get you out of here for a while."

Biting my lower lip, I look again toward Kyle. Helpless, lonely Kyle.

"He'll be okay for a little while without you." The blonde promises, not at all annoyed or angered by my reluctance. "Just you and me, huh? We can do whatever you want."

Lowering my head, my bangs fall over my eyes. "I'm not up for anything."

"That's okay," He says. "That's fine." Pulling my hand to his lips, he kisses it, smiling as he lets go and pats my knee.

I watch him through my hair as he stands, turning his back toward me and leaning over Kyle.

"Hey, buddy," His fingers lightly trail over Kyle's hand. "Still holdin' on, huh? Keep it up, we don't wanna lose you, dude."

Gripping the sides of my chair, my fingers curl deeply into the underneath of the seat. It's crazy, but I can feel jealousy ripping through my entire being as I watch them. I don't like Kenny touching him. I don't like how they've kept a steady friendship while I was cast aside. It drives me crazy to know that Kenny hangs out with him a lot and I'm never invited because Kyle doesn't want anything to do with me anymore. Why is Kenny special enough to keep around and I'm not?

_Stop touching him…_

"I miss you, Ky." He whispers, making my blood boil. He kisses Kyle's forehead, letting his lips linger a moment.

_Stop _touching _him!_

"Say," A hint of humor crept into his voice. "would you mind if I borrowed Stan for a while?" He leans forward and tilts his head, pretending to listen to what Kyle has to say. "No? You… You think it'd be good for him to get out of this stuffy old place for a while?"

Kenny look up at me, smiling innocently as he slips his hands into his pockets and shrugs. "He says he thinks you should get out of here for a while."

I'd like to just sit in peace and wait for him to wake up. At the same time, I don't mind making Kenny get the hell away from him.

My eyes meet his. "… Okay."

* * *

Kenny somehow manages to get me to down a double cheeseburger, fries, a large soda and an ice-cream cone twenty minutes later. It feels good to actually put something in my stomach, I must admit. It helps counter the sharp burn of acid from all the stress I've been under. At the same time, I can't help but feel guilty somehow, eating this huge meal while Kyle survives on a tangle of tubes and wires dripping various vitamins and medicines into his veins, along with a liquid nutrient paste poured into his stomach. 

Afterward, I think Kenny could sense the jaded state a full tummy had put me in, and led me back to my house and into my room.

"We can watch a movie," He decides, popping something random into my DVD player while I all but collapse onto my bed.

"Haven't seen this one in a while." He backs up toward my bed as he hits play from the menu and then plops himself down beside me.

I glance over at him, watching him as he watches the opening credits flash across the screen. He's leaning back on his elbows, one leg stretched down the length of my bed and the other one bent up at the knee. His pants hang a bit loose on his slim hips, and the material is worn soft and thin from so many washes. It falls and molds perfect on and around the bulge beneath, and no matter how hard I fight it, my eyes sneak a peak.

My eyes snap up to his the second he looks over at me, and I turn my head away, pretending to focus on the movie I'm so uninterested in watching that I haven't the faintest clue what it is. Out of the corner of my eye, I can sense his smile. Slow, seductive, careful. I swallow hard as he scoots closer to me.

"Stan?"

The moment I turn my head toward him, his lips catch mine. Did he have this planned the whole time, or does something as simple as a quick glance at his crotch give him _that _much courage to go in for the kill? I honestly couldn't say one way or another. Partly because his lips are so soft and moist and caring that they're like a healing balm to my loneliness.

Acting solely out of instinct, my mouth parts slightly beneath his, allowing him to take my lower lip between his and give gentle, sucking kisses. There's a warm buzzing all around me and my male organs are reacting in quick response to the loving stimulation of another male.

His arms encircle me, pulling my body tight against his, and then he leans forward, pushing my back down onto the mattress. It doesn't take long for his lips to find the side of my neck. At the same time, his hand smoothes up and down my torso, finally slipping beneath my belt buckle.

A hiss sounds through my teeth with the sharp intake of breath the touch invokes. Pleasure spheres through my body as Kenny's hand plays and teases beneath my jeans. I clench my teeth, baring them to the heavens as my head falls back onto my pillow. My back arches off the bed and I can hear myself moaning soft and steadily in anticipation as Kenny pulls his hand out of my pants just long enough to unbuckle my belt and then begin working on the button and zipper.

I close my eyes, but don't attempt at all to stop him from what he's about to do. Instead, my body endures the sensations while my mind finds itself in a different time.

…Because it's Kyle's hands, not Kenny's, shyly pulling down my zipper, eyes ablaze with desire and clouded with confusion all at once.

"It's okay," I whisper, just like I had one year ago. "I want you to. Oh, _God… _I want you to." My hands squeeze his thighs gently, encouraging the behavior.

Those shy hands sneak into the sides of my pants and pull them down just enough to expose me to him.

_Kyle… Kyle… Kyle, _My voice gasps in my head, over and over as each sensation washes over my body, the next stronger than the former.

He takes a break from his current task to drop kisses on my torso, wet and flirtatious with tiny love bites every now and again. I can feel his hair falling over his brow, tickling my skin in the most arousing way as he continues up to my throat.

I'm gonna explode! It feels so damn good when he touches me.

"_Please… _Oh God… _Please!" _I wheeze between each deep breath.

His thumbs roll over my nipples, which instantly spring to life, and his breath, warm and fragrant, mingles with mine as his head lowers to suck me into another heart exploding kiss.

I moan into his mouth, unable to stop myself from slipping my hands into the back pockets of his jeans and forcing his pelvis down as I grind and arch against him. My hands slide up and disappear beneath his shirt as his teeth nip lightly at my earlobe. His hand glides between our bodies, pausing to squeeze the part of me that wants his touch the most.

"…Kah- ile!" I yell out, barely catching a breath between each syllable.

…And his hands stop, and his kisses stop, and suddenly all stimulation ceases. Breathing wildly, I pry my eyelids open and face…

Reality…

…Kenny.

Straddling my lap, looking down at me with eyes full of hurt and bewilderment. My illusion is shattered, and I'm pulled out of my flashback of Kyle's artistic hands discovering my body for the first time all those days and weeks and months ago.

"Kyle," the blonde states, seemingly unable to grasp the truth of it all. "All this time," He shakes his head. "All this time and I thought it was Wendy."

My heartbeat increases and I feel hot and like I need to vomit on something. Everything starts going fuzzy and dark with static, like the way channel 94 always looks. The warmth of Kenny's body leaves mine just as the phone rings. As I sit up, my company grabs it off the charger and shoves it at me. Thankful for a distraction I answer, only to hear a frantic Wendy on the other side.

"Stan? Stan, you've got to come down here right now!" She shouts. "Is Kenny there? Bring Kenny! Get down here as fast as you can! I'm at the hospital with Kyle!"

"Oh my God! What happened?" I shout back, terrified cold at what could have happened to him.

"Kyle woke up! Oh my God, Stan, he woke up!"

* * *

_BratChild3 (L. Ann)_


	7. The Long, Long Ago

**Authors Note: **One more chapter left after this one. I may also do an alternate ending. In that case, two more chapters. :)

* * *

**Chapter 7- The long, long ago.**

My blood is pounding thick and hot in my veins, throbbing in painful anticipation by the time Kenny and I reach Hell's Pass in record time. The empty corridor on floor three echo's with our stomping footsteps as we parade as quickly as possible past the counter with the protesting nurse and through the door displaying the numbers 135.

Seven pairs of eyes snap to ours, startled by the abrupt intrusion that I'm sure must have sounded like a stampede of wild elephants.

"Kyle!" I yell out instinctively, but as my eyes fall to his, I realize that they're closed.

I blink.

"What the hell is this?" Kenny grunts, clearly outraged and turns to Wendy. "He's not awake! He looks fucking dead to me!"

"Kenny!" She gasps, her pretty smile falling.

"He opened his beautiful green eyes just a few moments ago," Sheila starts calmly. "I'm afraid it's not like the movies where they just pop up and everything's normal, boys. It's going to take some time for him to fully adjust."

As she speaks, I make my way to the bed and place my hand on top of his like always. He doesn't even flinch, and as Sheila and Gerald go on explaining what had happened and what the doctor said to expect, I couldn't focus on anything but the sleeping figure in front of me.

I had let him down. Even if he hadn't known I had sat by his side for hours on end, talking and soothing him in his unconscious state, it was important to me that I be there when he awoke for the first time. I wanted him to see first hand just how dedicated I am to him. Friends or no friends, conscious or not, I would always be there. Now it was too late.

Unnoticed, I maneuver my way through the Broflovski's and Kyle's friends, leaving the room quietly.

What's going to happen if everyone's so excited about him being awake that I never get a chance to be in there alone again? What if I can't explain myself and my reasons for being there, can't have a moment just to look at him and thank the Lord he's alive?

"A miracle, isn't it?" The lady behind the check in desk asks.

Snapping out of my deep state of mind, my blank eyes fall onto her smiling face.

"I'm so happy he's coming through. Such a cute boy." She continues. "Are you friend or family?"

The words make my throat constrict and my heart feel like it's being ripped out of my chest with a fork.

"_Best friends," _I could say. "_Best friends forever. Since preschool." _

Only that would be a lie. We weren't best friends. We weren't even _worst _friends, like him and Cartman. Not even rivals, enemies. If we were, I'd still have contact with him, no matter how unpleasant. I could touch him in fights. But I don't even have that. He's made sure I'm so much of a nothing to him that it's like I were dead. He can't see me, he can't hear me. Even in Gym class, even on the same team, even if I was right next to him, I did not exist. His eyes never even glanced toward me, not for a second, not for a moment. Never. I had even been so bold as to "accidentally" trip him. His face hit the grass, but he picked himself up and brushed off his clothes, then jogged off with a smile toward one of his _new friends _as if he had simply been clumsy and tripped over his own shoes.

I am _invisible _to him

"… Neither." I finally voice.

"You okay, Darlin'?" The lady asks, a bit hesitant and concerned.

I'm really not. Emotionally I'm not, but it isn't a very bright idea to tell a staff member of serious medical situations that you aren't okay, so I nod and walk away, dragging my feet along the thin, hard carpeting.

I should feel… _so happy. _The only problem is that I never feel what I'm suppose to feel. Romance for my best friend, depression because he's gone, hopeful when he was in a coma, afraid now that he's not. What's wrong with me? Am I sick in the head? What kind of a bastard wishes someone would stay in a vegetated state forever?

I do. I just want to be by his side, and the only way I can do that is if he's helpless to tell me he doesn't want me there. Now that he's coming to, I'm afraid my time spent near him again is limited to a week at best.

I'm going to lose him all over again.

Ignoring the concern of the woman in front of me, I turn and sprint away, making it to the exit on the opposite side of the corridor just in time to spill the contents of my earlier lunch onto the freshly manicured grass.

What am I suppose to do now? What am I suppose to say when he realizes what happened and recognizes the people around him? I don't know what to do. I don't know if I should bother going back in, not only now, but ever. He hates me.

He hates me.

Another convulsion of nausea hits, expelling more pinkish-brownish, chunky liquid from the depths of my stomach. It's foamy and warm and tastes as fowl as it sounds, though a trace of its original sweetness is there.

And I swear right here and now, I will _never _eat another chocolate ice-cream cone as long as I live.

------------------------------------

"… _I need your help with something. You're the only one I don't feel totally weird about admitting this to, so don't be an asshole and rip on me, alright?" _

"_Jesus, Kyle, you make it sound like you're sprouting tits."_

"_Dude, sick!"_

_I float up the stairs behind him, past the second floor bathroom and into his familiar room. The walls are painted green, and I wonder when he did that._

"_I have to paint someone." He announces, poising a small box over his bed and overturning it. Six tubes of paint bounce onto his neatly made sheets. _

"…_Huh?"_

"_Yeah, I know." He agrees, busying himself with the paints. More like fidgeting nervously. "My art teacher is a total hippie. She even makes us call her 'Miss Sunshine'."_

_He looks up at me with an adorably shy smile and gives a short, quiet laugh. I can literally feel my heart warm up like melted honey under that gaze. _

"_You need a… a-"_

"_Human canvas." He fills in, arranging and rearranging the order of the colored tubes. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Silver. _

_He clears his throat, waiting nervously for me to respond in some way, but I'm glued to the spot. He was asking permission to touch my body. Did I want that, especially after he had admitted his attraction toward me not even one week ago?_

_I take a moment to absorb him. His thin, boyish body. His soft gaze focused carefully away from mine and his eyebrows knit in hopefulness…_

… _Fuck yes, I wanted it._

_All I wanted was to be close to him. The closer, the better. Since his return, I had noticed how near we stood to one another, how our thighs grazed each others, just barely, when we sat. How we faced each other from opposite sides of the bed when we slept over with one another. Had it always been this way? I had never taken any notice. We were fourteen now, too old -my mom said- to be sleeping in the same bed. But we felt comfortable that way and never bothered to alter that habit with age. _

_Being completely honest, I admit I've wondered lately what it'd be like to be even closer. To actually touch him purposely. On the hand maybe, on the cheek. His thigh, his lips. _

_My fingertips tingle with yearning, So I fold them into my palms and squeeze tight to keep from reaching out. _

"… _Sure, dude. I mean… I could do that for you." _

_His eyes meet mine and a smile curves his lips. I smile back, and he kneels to the ground and pulls a sheet out from under the bed. _

"… _How do we-"_

"_Just take off your shirt and sit on the sheet so this crap doesn't stain the carpet. Do you have any idea what the penalty is for a crime like that in this house?" He shakes his head and spreads the sheet smooth over the floor. _

_Complying to his command, I pull my shirt over my head and toss it into a pile on the floor, then stand awkwardly by the doorway._

"_I said sit down, you douche." Kyle spats, dropping the jumble of paint tubes to the floor and sitting himself, Indian style, on part of the sheet._

"_Ass master," I hiss, obeying nonetheless. _

_Grabbing for the blue paint, he pauses as he shakes it up, pondering._

"_Maybe the pants should go, too."_

"_Huh?"_

"_It's going to drip," Kyle answers, holding the tube up for inspection. "Paint doesn't come out of clothes."_

"_O_o_h." I squeak, honestly feeling like I had just learned something. _

_Sitting up on my knee's, I stick my pelvis out and begin undoing my pants. I realize, as I loop my thumbs through the top and wiggle them down my thighs, that this show is in direct display of Kyle's viewing pleasure, and he's watching intently. Falling back on my ass, I pull them off my legs and add them to the pile of clothes a few feet away._

_Kyle swallows hard, shifts his gaze to my top half and gives one nod. "Okay."_

_I watch as he pours color onto his index and middle finger, then tighten as the coldness touches the skin of my collarbone and he smears it into warmth._

"_What exactly do you have to do?" _

_Kyle's eyebrows arch high in acknowledgement, but his eyes and fingers continue their work, now across my chest cavity._

"_Anything my 'beautiful, unique little heart desires'." _

"_Your teacher really said that?" _

_Kyle snorts._

"_Well… How's she gonna know you actually did the assignment?" I wonder aloud. "It's not like you're taking me in to pin up on the wall, right?"_

_His finger twirls a half inch or so from my right nipple. To my chagrin, he pulls it away and snaps the blue closed, then reaches for the silver._

"_We have to write a one page essay on the experience and how the colors and patterns and all that turned out and how it made us feel."_

"_Oh my God, dude."_

"_Yeah." _

_A squiggle of silver is caressed down my hairless treasure trail. _

"_Wait," It suddenly dawns on me. "That means you could have just bullshitted your way through the essay and skipped this whole thing."_

_Silence._

"_Kyle?"_

"_Dude. Yeah maybe, okay?" _

_I blink. _

"_Kyle," I start carefully. "Kyle, there is no assignment, is there?"_

"_Yeah, there is."_

_I stare at him hard, unbelieving. I know him inside and out. I know when he's not telling the whole, honest truth._

_Dots of green are circled around my belly button, and then he bites his lip and curls his fingers into his palm. His eyes lower._

"_I'm suppose to do something artistic and write an essay about it, but the exact assignment isn't absolute."_

_That must have been one of the hardest things he's had to admit, up until that point at least. He chose to do this. He _wanted _to paint me. And I had to admire his balls for going through with it._

"_You have some huge balls." I blurt._

_His eyes snap to mine, searching for some kind of hidden meaning or insult maybe. I smile and in return, I get one back. Feeling my own balls grow to massive proportions, I make a request. _

"_Maybe I should paint you, too." I keep my eyes glued to our knees, which are touching, and rub the top of my arm in fidgety nervousness. "You know, part of your report could be the contrast of the colors we end up. Maybe you could make up something lame like… how we're all rainbows inside."_

_Peeking up at him through my bangs, I'm surprised to see him smiling._

"_I'm sure 'Miss Sunshine' would eat it up." He agrees. _

_I nod and swallow dryly. "…Kay. So why don't you… uh," I point to his shirt, too embarrassed to ask him to strip. _

_Kyle sits up on his knees, identical to the way I had earlier. His thin wrists cross each other at the hem of his shirt, and then he lifts it, exposing his stomach, his chest, his shoulders, and then tosses it aside. We stare at each other awkwardly, excitedly, and completely out of my control, I look down at his pants. All I can hear is my blood coursing my veins wildly as I watch his fingers slide down his torso and he slips his thumbs under his fly, undoing his pants button in an almost teasing way._

_I'm hot, and my throat is dry, and I'm in such physical excitement over watching my best friend take off his clothes that my heartbeat seems to be pumping solely in my nether regions. It's awkward and thrilling, embarrassing and delicious, and I wouldn't have it any other way. _

_The paints are opened and we begin applying colors and shapes and patterns and pictures to one another. He lets me touch his face, his cheeks and chin and nose. I make an orange spiral around one half of his chest, slow and precise with the short, smooth edge of my nail. I zero in, circling smaller until it glides directly over his nipple. His fingers come to an abrupt halt on my skin, and his eyes close as a small, gratified noise emits deep in his throat. Encouraged by this, I slop my hands with more paint, three colors at once this time, and apply it down his abdomen on either side of his belly button until I reach the top of his hipbones. His own artwork is becoming less shy and a lot more bold as he works color up my thighs. I feel fingers slip a little under the leg of my boxers, right on the sensitive inside of my leg. A sharp breath is sucked in through my teeth. Gripping around his hips, I caress my hands up his sides and around his back, then forward again around his ribcage. _

_Kyle sits up on his knees, moving in between my wide spread legs. Our breathing is in sync with one another; hard, shallow gulps of air through our mouths. Making war stripes, he runs all four of his fingers down my cheeks and his thumbs across my jawbone. _

_And then he's there, kissing me so fiercely it makes my head spin. I fall over when he lets go, but he follows suit, crawling on top of me and again finding my mouth with his. He sucks at my lips, the upper then the lower repeatedly, taking them between his, almost like he's devouring me. I follow his heed, allowing him to do what he will and responding only to his probes. He's the leader, and I have no complaints following along._

_My body takes on a mind of it's own, telling my hands to reach down and squeeze his rear. My reward is a delighted grunt and the front of his boxers rammed into mine. This expels an even louder, surprised moan from myself and a rush of adrenalin down my body. I push him over, rolling on top of him and ignore the colors that shoot from the tubes of paint crushed under our weight. I grab his wrist and guide his hand down my torso and beyond the elastic of my boxers. He squeezes me in his palm, exhaling my name on a whisper as I sneak a feel into his…_

…

"Stan?"… "Stan!"

I jolt awake wincing at the strain I feel in my neck from falling asleep in such an odd position. The dream had seemed so real, probably because it had really happened in the long, long ago. But the sad truth is that even though I had actually lived it once, it was in fact only a dream this time around, because I find myself now in the familiar waiting room of the hospital.

Wendy smiles at me. "Hey, sleepyhead."

In return, I smile back, soft and tiredly.

"Everyone finally left. They're tired and want to get rested up so they can be here when he's actually awake enough to start responding. Ready to go in?"

I yawn deeply, then nod.

"Just want to be alone with him?"

"Yeah."

She nods. As I stand she gives me a hug, and then we say our goodbyes.

Inside the room, Kyle looks just as he always has, only now he's turned onto his side and is curled up slightly. It makes me smile to see him in a more normal position. I don't think anyone sleeps perfectly straight on their back, at least not for long. It must feel good on his body to finally be able to turn.

To my completely amazement, not long after I sit in the usual chair facing his bed, I see movement. His long dark eyelashes flutter open and in an instant, the vivid green orbs they surround look straight at me.

Emotion wells up inside me. He hasn't looked at me for so long and, I thought, never would again. And just like that, here we are, face to face, my hand over his, looking into each others eyes. He blinks slowly, but I'm unable to. I can't look away, now even long enough for that. Opening my mouth, I try to speak, but my throat is too tight and the tears are too ready to start falling.

They come anyway, filling up my eyes and then splash out as I blink. The knot in my throat becomes looser.

"I miss you, Kyle." I cry.

Through my river of tears I watch his eyebrows crease together and his lips part slightly. He wants to say something, but all that comes out is a weak moan, close to a sob, and with a sigh, he slips back into the dark waters of his unconscious mind.

* * *

_-BratChild3 _


	8. Crying Tree

**Authors Note: **(edit- 7/15/2008) I realize this whole thing is pretty much crap, but I'm still revising the end and expanding. I have NO idea what's posessed me to do this. I guess the title isn't much better than "The Lost Year" but who gives a crud? I hated that title.

So... The very ending of this chapter is different, but that's all. The new chapter will be up shortly. If you have any comments or questions, I'm always open. :3 Arigato.

**Note on Stan's behavior:** I realize this may seem completely dramatic. And yeah, he _is _over reacting; however, for those of you who have never had someone do this to you-- just stop talking to you, deny you the forgiveness you need, the chance you need, especially when it's someone you love so much you'd die for them-- there just isn't any way to explain the psycological damage it does. It's like chinese ice torture. Seems like something so simple wouldn't bother someone, but it makes you _crazy_.

My experience even had me questioning my religion because I thought if I was so horrible a person that someone could hate me so badly they simply threw me away, then I must not be worthy of forgiveness, and forgiveness is the Christain's only way to heaven. So no matter how much Stan is _overreacting, _his behavior isn't _unrealistic. _I didn't get as bad as him, but there were times I felt so helpless I wanted to throw myself on the floor and kick and scream and cry. There were times I did. But it was on my bed. Not the floor. My poor, poor pillow. P

IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA TO REFRESH YOURSELF WITH AT LEAST THIS CHAPTER IF YOU PLAN ON READING THE NEW CHAPTERS.

* * *

**Chapter 8- Crying Tree:**

_"I was his forever,_

_He was mine too,_

_But something was wrong,_

_Because now he's gone,_

_tell me, what did I do?"_

_--_

It's six whole days before I'm able to see Kyle again. Everyone is so excited about him being awake that the room is always crowded with people until the nurse shoos them all away. During that time, no one except the doctor and nurse are allowed in. Apparently now that he's awake like they wanted, he needs to be left alone so he can sleep. If you don't catch the irony in that, move to South Park immediately, you will fit in.

I could have slipped in somewhere, but mentally I could not. Not with so many people around. I needed to see him alone. At least, I needed to see him without people I didn't know there, without his mother fussing over him.

That day has finally arrived. As I walk with Wendy down the familiar hall, I try my hardest to focus on what she's telling me.

"… He's still really weak, Stan, he went a long time just lying around." She explains tenderly. "He doesn't say much, it's still a little difficult, and he's still sleeping a lot more than he should be. He _is _getting better though, I promise. The doctor has even started letting him eat some soft foods, like pudding and jello."

She stops in front of the door, smiling at me. "You look like you're about to see a ghost."

"… Almost." I admit. "He's been dead to me for a whole year."

Wendy frowns. "Stan, something like this can really change people. I really hope-"

"I've already forgiven him a long time ago."

Her expression softens, and with a hard push, she gets the door open. As for me, I shuffle along behind her, my head lowered, hiding once again beneath all my bangs. When I peek up, I see him. My Kyle, smiling gently up at Kenny, who's in the midst of finishing up some sort of gooey concoction off a hospital cafeteria tray.

"Kyle," I say, so gingerly it's only barely above a whisper. I couldn't help it. It just came out.

Both boys look toward me, Kenny's grin growing wide and Kyle's fading into a blank stare. His eyes are sunken and dark, he's pale, and he looks weak and tired, and yet, it's the most enduring, beautiful sight I've ever seen. Kyle alive, awake, and looking directly at me. His mouth opens, and he speaks, but all I can hear is a soft mumble.

Kenny and Wendy's eyes slice back to Kyle, who's growing paler by the second.

"What?" Wendy asks.

Kyle closes his eyes and twists his face up in frustration. He swallows hard, very dryly, and reopens his eyes. "Get out." He repeats, clearer and with more power.

He's looking directly into my eyes.

Wendy grabs my hand for comfort, and Kenny touches Kyle on the wrist.

"Dude-"

Kyle pushes the hand away as harshly as he can, which is sadly as weak as a three year old girl. "No," He forces out, once again closing his eyes tightly.

I'm glued to the spot. I heard the words but part of me can't digest it. Through all of this, I never expected such a rash and quick response from him. My heart, for now, is frozen somewhere within my body. I can't feel it, I can't hear it. It's waiting in painful anticipation, waiting, to see if he means it, if he's just upset, if it's going to break.

Again.

His breathing is hard and ragged now. He opens his eyes to reveal tears streaming down his cheeks. "Get out," He cries. "Get out… get out… _get out…!"_

So I turn. I turn and I run and I drop the Teddy bear I had bought for him in the gift store four days ago. I can hear him shouting still as I hurry to the elevator, louder and louder as if to make sure I really leave, not just the room, but the entire hospital, possible even the whole town.

My breathing is hard from emotion, but I don't know what I'm feeling yet. Tears or anger? Nothings happening. Nothing is, but I know it will. My heart came back. It's pounding so hard that my entire body is pulsing.

And then I walk. Calmly. Sanely. All the way back to my house, all the way into my room. I close the door, I sit on the bed.

I wait.

The anxiety buzzes all around me, making me hot and dizzy and nauseous. I reach up to my chest, touching where I feel an increasingly sharp pain inside. I can't breath, I can't hear anything but pounding and my vision is focusing in and out, becoming fuzzy and black. I try to gasp for breath, but I just can't get any oxygen, like my lungs collapsed. A strangled cry for help catches in my throat.

_I'm gonna die… I'm gonna die… I'm gonna die…_

_BREATH! _I scream inside. _I need to fucking breathe!_

The pain in my chest becomes so unbearable that my body cripples and I fall forward off my bed and onto my floor face first. I bite my tongue when I hit and the blood runs warm down my throat. I choke and gag but I can't hear it, I can't get any air. There's something warm and wet all over my face and my hands but I don't know what it is.

Something tangles around me, I can feel it taking my space, my air.

And then… something soothing. Something soft on my back, on my face. Slowly, I let my body relax. I stop fighting for oxygen, and gradually, it comes easier. My breaths are sharp and choppy, but I'm getting air, and I can hear now a familiar voice.

Wendy.

Talking…

Soothing…

I open my eyes. I hadn't even realized I had closed them.

She has me in her arms with my head tucked under her chin and pressed into her bosom. My fingers are twisted into the purple material of her shirt, clinging for dear life. I relax my grip, and she finally looks down at me.

"Stan," She whispers. "You had me so scared."

_Breathe… keep breathing…_

"You were having a panic attack," She states, bushing tear-soaked bangs out of my eyes. "A _really _bad panic attack. I'm so glad I followed you. Otherwise-"

She breaks off, her words catching on a sob, and falls back off her knees against the wall. Her head clunks back in exhaustion, but I keep my head against her chest and encircle her slender waist with my arms. I can feel myself shaking, but her fingers sift therapeutically through my hair, encouraging my lungs to open and expand again.

* * *

I'm sitting with Cartman on his couch, watching TV and stuffing Snacky S'mores down my throat. I've taken to his company the past three weeks, because he doesn't try to pry out my emotions or make me face my demons. Instead, he respects it with silence and helps me deal with my troubles by keeping me in ample supply of his drug of choice; food.

You don't have to feel if you don't want to. That's what he's taught me, even though he hasn't said a word about it. Nothing has to hurt you if you don't care in the first place. But is this really a life? Is it really better to feel nothing at all, to hide it all? Does he really think so?

"Do you ever want to just stop?" I wonder aloud.

"What?" He grunts between chews.

"Eating," I elaborate. "Do you ever want to stop?"

Cartman glances at me like I've finally snapped. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

I wipe my crumby hands on my thighs, something that would repulse Kyle. "I don't mean altogether. I mean stop doing it just to cope."

"I'm not coping with anything."

"You know, like not having a dad, and how your mom is a crack whore and-"

"This is about Kahl again, isn't it?" He sighs. "Stan, listen to me because I'm being totally seriously, alright? You need to let it go. He's a Goddamn Jew and all he cares about is himself and saving a buck or two because Jews are cheap ass bastards. Think about all the times you've done things for him and how many times he just looked the other way. You think that's a friend? He's an asshole and needs to be treated as such."

Cartman begins crunching again on his snacks, not even realizing how much sense he just made. How many times had I gone to great lengths just to save Kyle's life, or keep him close to me? How many times had I worried over him, stressed and cried and fought all in is favor? And how many times had Kyle shrugged me off because there "wasn't anything he could do". Honestly thinking about it, I doubt he ever really cared about me much at all.

"He should've died." Cartman continues, mumbling more to himself than to me. "There's only two places in the world for people like him, and that's in a camp or Mexico."

"…Mexico?" I raise an eyebrow.

"It's the only place that's worse than hell itself."

* * *

I thought a lot about what Cartman had filled my mind with that day, and he was right. I shouldn't be this bothered by someone who never really gave too much of a crap in the first place.

But I couldn't forget. I couldn't stop caring, and as Kyle grew stronger, I grew weaker. My appetite dwindled to nothing, and by the time I had heard of Kyle's release from the hospital, I had gotten so depressed that I hadn't slept in three whole days.

"He doesn't want to see me?" I asked Wendy one day. She wouldn't even meet my gaze, and the only response I got was a change of subject.

I skipped out on school because I didn't want to see him. I couldn't, for fear of my sanity. It was a little harder to breathe every day, and if I had to be near him I'd surely suffocate. I meditated mostly, not even purposely. The warm sun felt so good on my quickly dissolving body that I'd sit outside for hours, my eyes closed and my mind completely blank. I was tired but I couldn't sleep, hungry but couldn't eat. My body was shutting down, my will to live had vanished.

* * *

"Stanley Marsh!"

_What the _fuck?

"You get out of that bed right now, mister!"

I peel my eyes open, getting an eyeful of my very agitated mother. She stomps to the other side of the room, ripping my blanket away as she passes to my window, then yanks the blinds open. I shield my eyes against the blazing light of the sun with my hand and look up at Mom with an expression of betrayal.

"You look like hell, Stanley, you can't stay in bed the rest of your life!"

Oh, blow me. I hadn't slept more than five or so hours in the past week, and all she can think about is the fact that I'm in bed now and the sun is already up. What a bitch.

Groaning tiredly, I fall over and burry my face in my pillow. I'm so weak I don't even have the energy to argue back.

"_Now, _young man!" She snaps. "I'll be back in here in ten minutes, and you'd better be up and dressed. Then you will go downstairs and have a healthy breakfast. Honestly, Stanley, you look like a toothpick."

I feel like my stomach is swallowing itself, being perfectly honest. My tongue is sticky instead of wet, probably because I haven't had any water in a few days. I just don't want it. I don't want anything.

The warmth of Moms hand presses against my forehead. Her expression has change to one of pure distress. "Baby, are you okay?"

"Fine, Mom," I croak out.

I try to sit up, but her hand quickly pushes my chest down. "I'm calling the doctor. My God, you look," she pales, covering her mouth with her hand like she's holding in the barf. "You stay right there." She points at me sternly, then rushes out of the room.

Well, fine then. I didn't want to get out of the goddamn, fucking bed in the first place. What is it with parents anyway? They never realize they're being a huge bitch until you look like you could play the lead in The Night of the Living Dead, and then suddenly you're their precious little baby again. Maybe if I were a girl they wouldn't expect so much of me all the time. Maybe they wouldn't be so hard on me.

If I were a girl, maybe I'd be in Kyle's arms right now.

_Don't even think it, _I scold myself.

But it's true, because I really _don't _know. Even if that were the reason, why couldn't we be friends? Where did I go wrong?

My face screws up, reflecting the emotional pain building inside. Tears slide down my face, burning my dry skin along the way. I curl up onto my side and pull the covers over my head, wishing the world away.

* * *

Someone's pinching my wrist. It irritates and angers me, but I can't find the strength to wriggle it free. Voices chatter all about, making no sense to my knowledge. I open my eyes, finding the faces to be just as blurry as their words for a few moments.

"… any worse than this. You're lucky you called me when you did. Feel this," The man speaking, who I've seen more times than a person of my age should, squeezes a thick chunk of the skin on my arm and pulls at it.

"Ow," I hiss as my mom grabs the skin and repeats this small torture. "Goddamnit, that hurts! Cut it out!"

"Oh, I see what you mean." She ignores me to appease the doctor. "Is that why his eyes look like they're sinking into his head?"

"Severe dehydration can cause a number of symptoms, including sore, swollen eyes and sort of sinking into the skull."

My stomach flips at this information and gives a heave, but I have nothing for it to reject. Instead, my dried out throat protests and I end up coughing and hacking gooey mucus like a geezer.

"Hello there, Stanley." He greets, suddenly deciding to pay attention. "I understand you're not feeling very well. I don't want you to worry about that. I'm just going to give you a little shot to get some fluids into you."

"No way, dude."

"Now, Stanley-" Mom protests.

"No!" I insist. "I fucking hate needles!"

"Now, now, it's just a little pinch." The doctor comes at me, holding this huge, extremely sharp needle in his right hand.

I'm distracted, however, by the nurse, who pulls up my arm and wedges an IV into the back of my hand. At the same time, I feel the shot penetrate and a loud yelp exits my throat.

"That was my ass, you son of a bitch!"

I can't believe they tricked me like that! Isn't that the sort of thing they do to five year olds?

"You're going to start feeling much better now." I'm told by this so-called doctor that's let Kenny die I don't know how many times. "I have a liquid routine I want you on for the next five days, and then you need to come see me. Dehydration is a very serious thing. The urine sample we tested-"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," I interrupt. "What urine sample?"

"We stuck your hand in warm water while you were asleep."

"Aw- awww!"

"As I was saying," He continues. "it's extremely concentrated. The most concentrated it can get. You have no liquids in your body at all, which is the reason you're in such physical distress. Being this dehydrated, you're also at risk of a heart attack, even for a normally healthy youth such as yourself. You need to take it easy, and drink constantly. The IV stays in overnight, until tomorrow afternoon. If you touch it, you'll stay under my care in an intensive unit."

…Bastard. _Fucking _Bastard.

* * *

The next afternoon, I'm feeling better enough to roll out of bed. I had a sharp, uncomfortable pain along my lower back that vanished with some hydration. Another plus is that my tongue isn't sticking to the roof of my mouth anymore. It _was _rather annoying.

After a nice, cool shower, I pull on some clean clothes, slip on my shoes and brush my long bangs across my eye. Downstairs, the smell of chicken and Spanish rice fills my senses, but I'm not going to wait around. I'm still too miserable to eat anything and besides, I want to get a long, quiet walk in before the day sets completely.

With my hands in my pockets, I slip out the door unnoticed and breathe the crisp air as deeply as I can. I can't even feel good about just being alive anymore. It hurts to live. It hurts to think.

In my pocket, I tinker with the Star of David necklace I'd brought along. I need to get rid of it somehow, but there's a little part of me that can't let go. Not yet. It's about the only part of Kyle I have left.

He just disappeared from my life so quickly. Am I so wrong to think that maybe he can come back just as sudden? I'm waiting for heaven to rain liquid diamonds, I know, but I can't help it, because it's all that I want in the world. Just Kyle.

Unconsciously, I realize that I'm approaching our tree. The one Kyle had carved a heart into and confessed his feelings beside. As I near closer, I come to a dead stop, as does my heart before soaring.

… Because directly in front of our tree, with his back toward me, stands Kyle. He turns to look at the intruder, and freezes just as I had.

For endless minutes, we stare at one another, nothing but a few feet of a beaten, dirt path between us. I see no anger in his expression. He looks more _guilty _than anything.

In his hands, which have fallen limp at his sides, he holds a thick pocket knife. Only this time when I look beside him into the bark, he's carved a giant crack down the middle of the heart. My lips part slightly in shocked sorrow as my own heart literally feels like it slides into my stomach and turns into burning acid, releasing poison into my bloodstream.

My eyes slice back to his, questioning, hurt, filling quickly with tears.

Kyle blinks, almost like he's just snapped out of some sort of alternate reality, drops the knife and begins down the path in the opposite direction.

"Kyle!" A tormented scream echo's out my throat. "Kyle, what did I do? Please, don't go!"

I stumble to the trunk of the tree and fall against it, helplessly watching him walk away from me. "Don't go, Kyle!"

The sharp pain I had gotten in my chest returns. I look up at the mutilated heart. Thick, milky white sap seeps through the fresh cut. It's bleeding from the new wound. At the sight, I rip the necklace out of my pocket and stab his new artwork with the sharp point of the star, over and over and over until it finally wedges in so deep that I can't get it back out.

I feel myself wilt to the ground, choking on my sobs. My lungs begin tightening again, but I don't care, because my whole life just walked away without even a glance back. Just before my whole world goes black, the tree begins dripping it's sap onto my forehead, crying for me. Crying _with _me, because it too had experienced the blossoming of our love and the final breaking of my heart.

* * *

**_A/N: _**So in case it isn't clear to anyone, he didn't die. He simply had another panic attack.

_-BratChild3_


	9. Jew Star

**Authors Note: **Well, here it is. The continuation. :) Everything is strictly fiction from here on out. I don't intend there to be many more chapters. In fact, there are probably only 1- 2 more left. See the previous chapter for more notes.

Please review, or I may decide to simply abandon this yet again and move forward with my new fic. That's not a threat; just a warning that I won't waste my time if no one is interested.

Please and thank you!

* * *

**Chapter 9- Jew-Star**

A sharp tugging on my bangs wakes me. My eyelids slice apart, trying to open against the brightness of late afternoon. I'm still under the tree, spread out among a few fallen leaves, sap dripping steadily against my forehead and testing my patience-- a Chinese ice torture. Kenny stands over me, his foot crushed painfully against my chest.

"Fucking idiot," he spits, throwing an unidentifiable wad of something dark into my face. I spasm when I feel it hit, thinking at first it's the mutilated carcass of some half-rotted, dead rodent. I flick it off with the reflexes of a ninja, scrambling to sit up quicker than I've moved in a while.

"DO YOU KNOW EVERYONE IS LOOKING FOR YOU?" Kenny screams at me. I ignore him and squint at the dark ball of hair beside me, realizing suddenly that it had been attached to my head not five minutes ago.

"WHAT THE HELL?" I shout, grabbing my now short bangs with one hand and the mass of detached hair with the other. It breaks apart in my fingers and scatters across my legs, fluttering like fallen rose petals. "What the hell is your _problem_?"

Kenny's mouth tightens into a stiff line, bitter with disgust. "I'm not the one _bathing _in fucking tree cum," he says, jaw tight. "No amount of _Pert Plus_ was going to get that shit out of your hair. You should be grateful I came along when I did, or you could very well be bald right now. And believe me, Stan, not even someone with _your _looks can walk around with a shiny, naked head and still be sexy. The _Mr. Clean _look just isn't in."

I scoff, delicately brushing the shiny strands of my own DNA off my pant legs. "Are you trying to be funny, Kenny?"

"The only thing I'm trying to do is _not _strangle you with your own wanker," he answers.

I blink. He blinks. I would probably laugh if I weren't so hollow; and yet, not even Kenny is amused. His pleasant face is hardened with acute repugnance as he looks on, hating me for a reason my mind can't seem to properly grasp. I have no idea what I've done.

He sighs finally, his square-shouldered, military stance softening into a more natural position. "You seriously don't get it, do you, Stan?"

I shake my head, wondering for a moment how long I'd been out. The tree miraculously starts bleeding again, the milky liquid dripping in fat drops on the hard ground beside me. Kenny looks to the source of the wound, his eyes flashing when he takes in the brutally mutilated bark. His expression is somber as he moves to it, examining the cuts and stabs, the innocently affectionate initials hidden behind the torrent of hate and revenge.

"Kyle did this?" he asks, a question in and of itself, not meant to be answered. I look away, ashamed for some obscure reason; embarrassed I'd been so easy to overcome. Kenny's fingers run softly over the crevices, pausing when they encounter the sharp point of the Jew-star pendant lodged deeply between the lines of the heart; a tiny silver period in the middle of Kyle's drastic visual statement. Kenny's slender fingers pick viciously, and it pulls easily away from the tender, pale flesh of the inner tree. He stares down at the trinket, sticky with sap and gleaming softly in the shade-weakened light. He shakes his head. "What a waste."

"How did you know where I was?" I wonder, not really caring, but wanting to redirect his attention. It hurts more when someone else is thinking about Kyle in my presence. But I only succeed in drawing his attention further to that subject.

"Everyone's looking for you," he answers. "and Kyle told me this is where you'd be."

I look up, my mouth a small 'O' of surprise. Kenny pockets the necklace, grabs my left arm and hoists me up. His hands are warm against my ice-cold flesh. Without a word, he strips away his orange sweatshirt and drapes it lovingly over my shoulders.

"Let's go tell them you're okay, and then we'll get some coffee. Just you and me."

I let him guide me away from the misery scribed deeply in the tree and back to civilization; a different kind of nightmare completely, but a hell all the same.

* * *

Harbucks Coffee is quiet and calm inside, only a few customers talking softly amongst themselves at random tables. Kenny chooses one in the far back, and for a while we talk in comfortable familiarity about nothing in particular, about everything in general. He splits a giant chocolate chip cookie and offers me half; I accept it modestly. From the corner of my eye, I see him smile as I break a piece off and push it slowly between my lips.

I don't have the heart to tell him everything tastes like shit.

He eats his half of the cookie with far more cheer than I do, and he's already sipping on his second vanilla espresso by the time I'm finished with my treat. But something in his eyes is off, and I feel him watch with hawk-like scrutiny as I dip my straw in the cloud of whipped-cream floating on the surface of my latté and swirl it into a frothy mixture.

"It's funny," he finally says, watching as I chug half the mocha concoction. "you never used to like coffee."

"I still don't," I reply right away, setting my cup on the table with a clunk.

"But you always drink it anyway," he concludes, then more carefully, "because Kyle likes it."

I feel my expression change from passive to solemn and look down at my lap. I wait for my chest to cave in again, wait for the inevitable crushing of my lungs, but it doesn't come. I feel inexplicably detached inside.

"It's been a year, Stan," Kenny reminds me gently.

"I know," I answer, hardly a whisper of breath. His hand reaches across the styrofoam cups and offensively large pile of yellow paper napkins to cover mine. My gaze shifts to this kindly gesture, but I can't look at his face.

"A _year_," he repeats, drilling the finality into my already damaged heart. My eyes cut harshly to his.

"I _said _I _know_." My voice is more powerful this time, more bitter and direct, blaring icily through the peaceful atmosphere. But he doesn't back down.

"Do you know he doesn't miss you?" I flinch at the words, and Kenny's grip tightens between my fingers.

"You don't know that," I snap, fidgeting, starting to itch beneath my skin. My eyes are locked on our hands again, and I'm pulling my arm back, trying to get away.

"Do you know he never even _thinks _about you? _Ever?"_

"You don't know that!" I shout, yanking out from under his touch. A few startled eyes glance our way. Kenny ignores them, his eyes narrowing sternly.

"I do know. I do know because he told me." He spats, his voice cruel and calm.

"He told you where I was," I whimper, grasping desperately for a reason to hold on, needing to believe there's hope. My throat is starting to swell with the sensation of unshed tears

"He told me where you were because he wanted to know what I was looking for. He didn't give two shits about you," he growls between his teeth. "He hasn't from the moment he cut you loose. Don't you believe for one second that it isn't the truth because somewhere inside yourself, you know damn well that it is."

I try to stand and hit my knees against the table, bruising the skin, and start to walk out. Kenny leaps up, grabbing my wrist and dragging me out the door with superhuman strength. He shoves me against the wall of the building, pinning me there with his own body.

"You don't know! You don't know _anything_!" I insist, screaming in his face before he has a chance to open his mouth.

"Kyle's my friend and I love him dearly, but he's not what you think he is," Kenny rushes, whispering harshly as to not draw any more attention. "He's a good guy, Stan. He's a good guy, but everyone has flaws. Maybe it's time you heard about some of them so you can drop this hallucination you have of him as some kind of virtuous fucking saint."

"Stop it!" I push against him, but I'm shoved against the wall again.

"Do you know he has a boyfriend?" Kenny hisses, pressing his lips to my ear, trying to keep as quiet as possible. The words slice through my gut like a blade.

"Don't," I cry. His breath is too hot against my skin.

"Not only does he have another boyfriend, who he's _fucking_,but he still comes to me when the guy is out of town."

I hear a startled breath spasm from my lungs. My eyes widen, all resistance ceasing as Kenny turns his head slightly, peering at me through cold, pale eyes. He nods, answering my silent questioning.

"That's right," he says. "I've been fucking him, too. For months. Even before his accident."

The floodgates break, and my chin is dripping with tears in a matter of seconds. "Kyle's not like that. He wouldn't do that."

Kenny holds on to my shoulders, steadying me. "He also wouldn't just abandon you, right?" he sneers, mocking my resistance. "I don't know what happened to him, Stan, but he isn't the Kyle you knew. He's cold and unfeeling. He's selfish."

"No," I blubber, squeezing my eyes closed.

"YES!" Kenny snipes in my face, jerking me. "I know you loved him like no one else, but it's time to let him go, Stan! _Let. Him. Go_."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"_NO!" _I scream, straining my lungs with the force. I want to fight, to push him away, but his words weaken me, and I feel myself going limp.

_Let Kyle go... _

As if those words can possibly be used together in a sentence like that. Like it's possible to actually accomplish such an atrociously difficult task. I try to keep the nausea back, but something in me still wants to vomit all over Kenny's clean, black shoes.

"That's not all," his voice is tender again. "He told me he never loved you."

"You're lying!" I try to jerk away, but Kenny holds tight, breathing ragged against the top of my head.

"He fucking told me, Stan! It was just an infatuation and it's over." He fumbles to keep me still, but I manage to break away, my eyes blazing madly. "You think anyone who loved you could do what he's doing to you?"

I point feebly at him; my whole arm shakes. "You're lying! You're lying, goddamn you, Kenny! He loved me! Even if he doesn't now, he _did!_ He fucking did, and I won't let you take that from me!" I take a few amplified breaths, sobbing. "Why are you _doing _this?"

"Because I'm your _fucking _friend." He states simply, forcing the words through his tightly clenched teeth.

"You're my _fucking _friend?" I scorn him. "You're _fucking _Kyle behind my _fucking _back when you know _fucking _well what I'm _fucking _going through!" I beat my fists violently against his chest, my eyes closed, voice straining beyond it's capacity.

I'm trying to hurt him, deliberately; but for some reason he doesn't move, doesn't flinch. He stares at me, letting me throw my tantrum, his face torn between guilt and pity. I'm shorter by an inch and weaker by distress; it's impossible to hurt him. I start sinking to the ground, and he catches me under the elbows. Immediately, I shove him away and turn, vomiting against the cold cement, chocking and coughing on the warm liquid in between sobs.

Kenny rubs my back, whispering promises that it'll be okay in my ear. I'm gasping for breath when it stops coming, and he pulls me against his chest, hugging me from behind. Part of me is still clinging to hold on, happy he's touching me because I know he touches Kyle. But the more sane part of me gets sick again thinking about them together that way, and my disgust spills out in the form of more vomit. Again, Kenny waits; holding me, not the least bit repulsed. When I'm finished, he turns me to face him and pulls me perfectly into his arms.

I'm covered in regurgitated coffee, and I'm still wearing his orange hoodie.

* * *

The first time I made love to Kyle, it was slow and sweet. His gentle gasps and soft pleas were too hot for my young senses to hold back, and we didn't last ten minutes. It was clumsy and awkward, but despite all that, it was the most gratifying experience of my life. Being each others first love is what made it absolutely perfect.

The second time I made love to Kyle, it was hard and passionate; the embodiment of unrepressed, fervent desire. His nails dug into my skin, his hips rose to meet mine, and I felt ten-thousand stars burst through my blood when he cried out my name.

The third time never came for me. His third time was an experience shared with Kenny, or maybe this mysterious "boyfriend" I never knew he had. With that new knowledge, it isn't so ridiculous to think he'd given me up because he'd fallen in love with someone else. But if he were truly in love, he wouldn't be screwing Kenny behind this guys back.

Something is seriously wrong with this situation.

Kenny stayed with me all this week, trying hard to get me to see the good in life without Kyle, but I wasn't buying it. Even he couldn't seem to get enough and talked to him on the phone every night before bed. He tried to hide who it was, not allowing me to see the caller ID on his cell, censoring his side of the conversation, and cleverly telling me it was "no one" when he'd hang up. But I knew better. Their conversations were always peculiar, with Kyle trying to steal Kenny away, and Kenny carefully mentioning that he's staying "with a friend." He was careful not to mention me by name.

I want to hate Kenny, and I don't know why I can't. He's such a good friend to me, despite the fact that he's fucking Kyle. I haven't figured out if it's betrayal on his behalf or not; after all, Kyle isn't mine. He assured me it had never happened when Kyle and I had been together, and that the only reason he put up with it now was because this new boyfriend was no friend of his anyway.

"Besides," he had said, continuing after a pause for thought. "I don't think he's happy with this guy. It's like he's... I don't know, Stan, sometimes his behavior is a little worrisome. The lights always have to be off, and sometimes he cries. You know, during the middle of it."

I had wanted to press the conversation further, but so much detail about their intimacy left me feeling repressed, and I knew I'd fall to pieces if I dwelled too long on it.

But Kenny abandons me the next week during lunch period, telling me he'll be right back and then crossing the school yard to sit next to Kyle. Cartman and Wendy are the only two who venture over and sit beneath my rain cloud. They mostly fight amongst each other, though, and I can't help but wish they'd go away. Mostly I ignore them, and I try not to look at Kenny and Kyle either; but that proves to be more difficult than it sounds.

There are three girls and four other guys sitting with them, and I find myself trying to figure out which, if any, is Kyle's boyfriend. But Kyle seems to pay far more attention to Kenny than any of them; that is, until a tall brunette sneaks up behind him and covers his eyes, leaning close to whisper into his ear. Kenny's expression hardens. He mutters something and abruptly stands, leaving them behind as he starts back toward my table, hands in his pockets, head downward with open distaste scrawled on his face.

That's when I know it's him.

He's sitting in Kenny's place now, turned completely toward Kyle, a relaxed yet serious expression on his face. His hair is messy, his eyes tired, and a cigarette dangles precariously from his lips.

Kyle's boyfriend is Christophe; The Mole.

I literally feel my jaw loosen at this revelation. I haven't seen this guy in eight years, and I didn't even think he still lived around here. Kenny slides in beside me, evaluating the situation before making a curt statement.

"Look away, Stan. That guy is eye-poison in its deadliest form."

But I can't look away. Christophe pulls the cigarette from his lips, balancing it between two fingers and smirks as he draws Kyle into his arms. My spine stiffens automatically, my primal instincts of wanting to protect what's "mine" kicking in full force. Kyle isn't so thrilled himself. His eyes bore dangerously into the tabletop. My heart thuds hopefully for a moment, but when Christophe pulls back questioningly, Kyle points nastily at the cigarette. Christophe blinks and looks down at it, then takes one last drag and grinds it into the dirt. Kyle leans more easily into him this time, but still, neither of them smile. Christophe nuzzles against Kyle's pale neck and whispers something that makes his eyes snap to mine, lips parted in surprise.

I blink at him, amazed he actually looked at me, but embarrassed I'd been caught gawking so pathetically at them. Christophe stares into Kyle's face, examining his expression as he watches me, then brings his hand up to clamp Kyle's chin and turns his head, redirecting his attention. Christophe's fingers stroke lovingly against Kyle's jawbone as he speaks, their lips dangerously close. I can feel the jealousy shoot through me in all it's ominous glory. I groan mournfully beneath my breath and let my face fall into my arms on the table.

Kenny and Wendy talk quietly amongst each other, and I try to focus on their conversation to counter the anxiety building beneath my ribcage; but they break off suddenly, and Cartman stiffens noticeably beside me.

"What do _you _want, _Jew_?" He sneers loudly, making me yank my head back.

My eyes lock with Kyle's. He's standing so close that if I reached out I could touch him. Beside me, I feel Wendy and Kenny exchange glances.

"Stan," Kyle says carefully, his eyes wavering. "Can... can I... talk to you a minute?"

"I think you've done enough damage around here," Cartman snaps, making a brash gesture in my general direction. "It's time for you to leave."

Kyle's hand cracks down against the table; the sound ricochets off the surrounding buildings. "Jesus _fucking _Christ Cartman, just give me _five _fucking minutes with him!"

Cartman matches his glare with equal ferocity. His beady, brown eyes cut across the lawn to Christophe, who's watching with eerie lenience. He nods once, then redirects his focus on Kyle's back as he pops a matchstick against the box and lights another cigarette. Kyle's still fuming openly when Cartman finally sits back.

"_Fine_," he snaps, crossing his arms over his wide chest. "You have exactly five minutes."

Kyle mutters something unintelligible and grabs my wrist to tote me along behind him. He's rough and impersonal, but I still feel electric shocks zap through my body at his touch.

My thoughts spin wildly, unable to grasp the reason for this sudden request, and my breath comes out ragged and uncomfortable, my lungs especially tight. He drags me mercilessly just around the corner of the building; the empty side with a single white door for the cafeteria workers and a fowl smelling dumpster buzzing with flies on one side.

I open my mouth the second we round the bend and pull out of eyesight, eager to know what he wants, and instead feel his lips crush almost painfully against mine. My unspoken question breaks off into a lone whimper. He holds the kiss powerfully, the seconds ticking off somewhere in a universe completely irrelevant to the moment. When he starts to pull away, my arms snap around him like a bear-trap, pulling him fiercely into me and smacking our lips back together.

And just like that, Christophe doesn't matter, and Kenny doesn't matter, and the past year doesn't matter. I don't care who he's slept with or how many times or why. I don't care that he's ignored me for the past thirteen and a half months, I don't care about the cuts he made in the tree. I don't care about anything but Kyle, in my arms, exactly where he should be.

But he does pull away, shoving me forcefully away from him. His eyes hard and cold, brittle like shards of glass.

"You have to leave me alone." His tone cuts bitingly in the air, and the words confuse me. I feel my face contort in mystification. "Stop watching me, Stan. Do you hear me? _Stop. _You have to _stop_."

"I can't," I hear myself choke, my vision going blurry with liquid heartache.

"You have to!"

"I can't!" I shout back. "I love you too much!"

His expression crumbles and a flood of sobs explode from his chest. "Damnit, Stan, don't fucking say that!"

"It's the truth! I'll never get over you!" My hands are clinging to his shirt, and I don't even remember grabbing him. "No matter what you do, I'm always going to love you. I'll love you until the day I fucking die, no matter how big of an asshole you are to me!"

Kyle squeezes his eyes closed, the sobs rocking his entire body. I try to pull him into me again, but he slaps my hands away and jerks back. The tears dry up in an instant, and he's suddenly rash and cold again. He drags the heels of his hands down his face, wiping away all emotion, and sniffles, steadying himself. He digs ardently in his pockets until he comes up with a handful of silver, then scoops up my hand and presses it firmly into my palm, holding it there as his eyes burn into mine.

"Never let go of this," He demands of me. "Never let it out of your sight again. Use it for strength." He allows himself to close his eyes and leans weakly into me, touching his forehead to my cheek. "You can do this for me, Stan. You have to."

He turns and rushes away without a glance back, leaving me in the long, sharp shadow of the cafeteria building; sobbing, shivering, breaking apart inside.

I open my fist and look down. My tears fall slowly, splashing like sparkling crystals against the Star of David pendant resting soundly again in my possession.

TO BE CONTINUED...

_**-BratChild3**_


	10. Night Falls

**Authors Note: **Thanks to those who read and especially those who reviewed! Please continue to leave feedback, as it helps get my creativity flowing and as a result, quicker updates happen. :)

* * *

**Chapter 10- Night Falls**

_(1 year, 1 month, 16 days ago)_

Kyle and I stepped out into the dark evening from the brightness of the movie cinema, our pinkies linked together at our sides. We hadn't officially told anyone about our advanced relationship, but we weren't hiding it either. It was decidedly easier on everyone to simply allow our affectionate gestures toward one another become more apparent, that way no one had to feel uneasy about being called for a meeting simply for us to look them all in the eye and tell them we were gay. Straight people didn't have to have a discussion about their sexual attraction to the opposite sex, and we didn't feel we needed to discuss our sexual attraction to each other. It only made people edgier, more uncomfortable.

Our method seemed to be working grandly. When someone would ask, we would answer honestly. At this point, our friends already knew and our parents had began to raise eyebrows. None of them asked, but Sheila seemed to be the only one who wasn't suspicious; she seemed absolutely sure. What was crazy about it was that it didn't seem to bother her. She was so ridged about everything else in Kyle's life that, for the life of us, we couldn't figure out why she didn't seem to mind; seemed to be pleasantly surprised, even.

In the end, we linked her phenomenally accepting manner with her adamant disapproval of our female classmates. Their promiscuous attitudes and scantily dressed bodies had the parents of South Park more concerned and protective of their sons than daughters; and Sheila, we concluded, probably preferred her own son with a morally conscious, well-behaved male than a heathenish, decadent female. But we were still reserved to a point, being polite enough not to make-out and grind against each other in anyone's presence. We saved that for special times, when we were alone and could indulge ourselves fully.

Now we walked through the park, discussing the movie we'd just seen and listening to the frogs and crickets near the quietly flowing stream. I found a comfortable spot to sit close to the water and against a tree, then pulled Kyle between my raised knees and into my arms. I kissed him soundly, my heart doing jumping-jacks at the contact. My hand slid up the side of his neck, pulling him into me as I deepened my actions. We had already made love twice, but for lack of opportunity, hadn't in over a week. I was eager to be that close with him again, to find out what other kinds of praises and noises I could extract from him.

But he was stiff in my arms, his lips frozen. Certainly not the deeply warm and favorable response I had grown accustomed to receiving. I pulled back slowly, looking carefully into his face. His eyes were closed; I watched a lone tear roll down his cheek. I caught it with my index finger, and with tender worry, smeared it into his skin.

"What's wrong, Ky?" I asked. His eyelashes squeezed tighter against his cheeks, and another drop of saline fell. I caught this one with my lips. He hiccupped a particularly forceful sob and dissolved against my chest in a fit of hysterical weeping.

Kyle wasn't one to cry easily. Though he definitely didn't lack sensitive emotions, he was all boy inside; tough enough to keep himself composed unless it was something unbearably painful. Surprised by his reaction, I cradled him snugly against me, dropping lingering kisses and nuzzling against his exposed right temple. His face was pressed desperately in the crook of my neck and his fingers dug into my shirt, kneading the material. His whole body trembled between my thighs.

I let him cling to me, let him get it out. Five minutes turned to ten, to fifteen, to twenty.

"Kyle, please," I begged him, rocking him now. "What's wrong? You're really scaring me here. Do you need me to get help?"

"No!" His shout was muffled against my skin.

"Then talk to me. Come on, Kyle, please tell me what's wrong."

He took a few gulps of air; sniffling, swallowing, trying to gain some sense of self-control. At long last he pulled back to look at me, but remained entwined in my arms. He rubbed his nose against the back of his hand, anguish still washing over him with hiccup-like spasms.

"Tell me, Ky." I encouraged, stroking his face.

"We can't be together anymore," he rushed out on a tight breath, more sorrow spilling out of his eyes, dripping gracefully off his chin. My heart skipped a beat, terror flashing icily through the very core of my soul.

"What?" I asked slowly, carefully.

"We can't be together anymore," he repeated, mewling out the words in the most gut-wrenching agony. He clutched his stomach, squeezed his eyes closed again, and choked with more silent sobs.

My lips parted as I stared back at him, completely stunned by his announcement. It took a few seconds to find my voice, and even then I stumbled on the words. "Wha- why would you... you can't be... is this some sort of joke?"

"No," he bawled.

"What do you mean we can't be together anymore?" I demanded. I went on when the only reply I got was more crying. "Is it your parents?" He shook his head. "Is it mine?" Another shake. "What then?"

He sucked in a profound breath, still clutching his stomach, and looked up at me with those captivating green eyes, sparkling brilliantly with the abundance of tears.

"Because I don't love you!" he wailed, screaming the words with maddening vigor.

He touched me for the last time, his hands warm even through the material of my pants as he used my thighs to push himself up and then shoot off into the night, never once looking back.

* * *

(_Present_)

I'm reliving it again in a dream, forever haunted by the darkest moment of my days. The memory has imprinted itself on my brain and will often replay itself with perfect clarity in my sleep. The nightmare always ends when Kyle runs from me, disappearing into the shadows.

I awake with a start and decide in one instantaneous moment that I have to see him. Now. Tonight. It doesn't matter that he had talked to me, after long fucking last, just to tell me to stay the hell away from him. It doesn't matter because the kiss I'd received before the warning had blossomed the tiny seed of hope I'd carried for so long. The pendant he'd pressed so loving in my hand gave me all the strength I needed to carry out an act in the name of that hope.

So I break into his bedroom window at 1:34 in the morning. He'd always had the habit of keeping his window open in the warmer months, and the screen was easily detachable. I'm able to make it fully inside the room, sit at the edge of his bed, and take note that he's still fully dressed, before he's startled by the intrusion and bolts upright from sleep. The shock gives way after just a moment, and underneath his eyes are dead, lacking everything but a trace of malice. My heart is bumping in the timeless rhythm of love's song, aching for some sort of _my _Kyle to shine through. But his detached gaze remains in tact, not a waver of charitable emotion detectible in any form.

And then he's on me.

I moan into his open mouth, clutching him against me as his tongue pushes between my teeth. He breaks contact an instant later, long enough to rip my shirt over my head and toss it with reckless abandon across the room. It smacks loudly against his football poster and falls into a heap on the floor. He shoves me violently against the mattress and tugs at my waist, stripping me of my pants and boxers in one ruthless tug.

Kenny had been right about Kyle. It was impossible to see it from the distance I'd been forced to keep from him, but he's different. He's unfeeling. I didn't notice the pure vindictive manner about him from across the room, but up close and personal, it's a monster that's taken complete control. His once artistic and breathtaking touch has fallen to callousness; hard, cruel, impatient. He doesn't even smell like Kyle anymore. He carries a thick, suffocating aroma of cigarette smoke and a trace of French cologne.

He smells exactly like Christophe.

I feel my eyes prick with the formation of fresh tears, but I refuse to close them. If I close them I might miss an instant in which the Kyle I remember from long ago might appear.

He keeps his own clothes in place, but undoes his belt and zipper with twice the fury as he had rid me of mine, muttering profanities and practically tearing the delicate cloth of his boxers. I do absolutely nothing to stop him. I had wanted this more than anything, would do anything for him to touch me again, to acknowledge me. But not this way. I didn't imagine he'd become such a completely different person. And still, I say nothing as he spits into his hand to add lubrication. My teeth ground together when he tries to force himself in, but he doesn't budge. And then, there's an instant when he sounds almost normal.

"I need you to relax."

The single command tugs at something in my heart, and I stare into his stone-cold eyes as I will my body to fall limp beneath him. He manages to accomplish his goal this time, but the form of self lubrication he'd used isn't enough, and the better part if me is in pain as he fills me with movements perfected by an entire year of practice on Kenny and Christophe.

I cover my tear-soaked eyes with my hands, inwardly scolding myself to not think about that sort of thing. Whatever's happened in his life while I wasn't a part of it is irrelevant. Right now Kyle Broflovski is mine. Maybe it's in the worst way imaginable, but he's still mine.

He stays up on his knees, my thighs around his waist and his hands angling my hips up and into him. Besides that contact, he's careful not to get too close, careful not to caress or kiss or make any sort of gesture that could be marginally considered affectionate. He's sadistic the whole time, selfish... the whole act played out to satisfy his own wanton needs. But his excitement creates enough lubricant to make it more comfortable for me, and soon I'm moaning in contentment, clutching at the sheets because he slaps my hands away every time I try to touch him.

Release hits him first, and he collapses on top of me, forgetting his own rules of touching for a moment as he catches his breath. Cautiously, carefully, I move my arms up to enfold him. His eyes spring open, his head snaps up, and he's out of bed before I realize he'd moved.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," He chants, looking manically around the room, covering his mouth and nose in horrified realization. "What have I done? Holy fucking _shit_, What the hell have I _done_?"

I sit up and move to the edge of the bed, reaching out to him. "Kyle."

"Shut up!" he snaps, smacking me away like the very touch of my hand burns him. "Stay the fuck away from me! Oh, God, what the hell have I done?" He fumbles with the front of his pants, trying desperately to get everything back in proper order.

I'm torn between confusion, hurt, and anger of my own. He's the one who practically raped me, not the other way around. Nothing about him makes sense, nothing about him is even remotely close to the person I once knew. Something happened to make him this way, I'm convinced. People don't just turn into crazy assholes for no damn reason.

"Kyle." I try again, and receive another particularly painful whack on the wrist when I try to reach out.

"God, if only you would have just moved the fuck on like you were supposed to, I wouldn't have had to talk to you. And if I didn't talk to you, I wouldn't have kissed you. And if I didn't kiss you, you wouldn't have come here," he was rambling, still fighting his belt buckle. "Why the _fuck _can't I get over you!" he screams at me, throwing the loose ends of his rebellious belt against his thighs. "You _have _to get the fuck out of here!" He points dramatically out the window, but I shake my head calmly.

"No."

His struggle ceases immediatly as he turns to face me. "No?" he repeats, incredulous. "_No? _What the _fuck _do you mean _no_?"

"I'm not leaving." I explain.

"You're leaving right fucking now!" He scoops my clothes off the floor and heaves them into my face. "Put your fucking clothes on!"

"_You _took them off me in the first place." I remind him. But I pull my boxers up my legs anyway. There's something about arguing naked that makes me feel at a disadvantage.

He continues to mutter hysterically to himself as I finish dressing, peering out the window and tugging nervously at the drapes. I come up behind him as I pull my shirt down my torso.

"So let me get this straight," I begin when he whirls to face me, my heartache giving way to anger. "It's okay to fuck Kenny behind Christophe's back, but for some reason any contact with me provokes a guilty conscious. Why is that, I wonder?"

"Get the fuck out of here!" The growl rips from his chest.

"I'm not done!"

"We were done over a year ago!" He attempts to shove me toward the door, but I yank his claw-like grip from my arm.

"_You _were done over a year ago, but I still have some goddamn questions I'd like to have answered! If you seriously want me to move on, then I suggest you start talking right fucking now!"

"You have to go!"

He screams a sting of profanities at me as we struggle to overthrow the other, but his resolve begins to break away to tears.

"Please, Stan," he cries gravely, his strength falling limp. "Please, I'm begging you. Please just walk away. Forget all of this. Forget me. I'm fucking begging you. If you still love me so damn much, then you'd listen to me. For _fuck's _sake, Stan, stay as far from me as you possibly can."

I hesitate, watching the panic rising within the depths of his eyes. A question that hadn't crossed my mind since my expulsion from his recovery room in the hospital floats to the forefront of my thoughts, begging to be released.

I swallow, carefully studying his reaction as I ask, "...do you still love me?"

He bites his lips, eyes trained on mine. After what feels like an eternity. he finally nods; barely, slowly. His expression is beginning to harden.

"Then why are you-"

"That's why. That's exactly why I'm doing this, and if you trust me you'll walk away and never look back." He rushes, beginning to push me toward the door again.

"I have to know why!" I insist. "I can't just leave you!"

He looks like he's trying not to incinerate into a pile of ash, tears still leaking wildly from his eyes. "Not now," he says, his voice quivering, but expression deathly calm. "If you pretend I don't exist until I come to you, I promise I'll tell you everything. And then afterward you have to pretend again that you never heard of me." I swallow, not saying anything. I can't make a promise I know I might not keep. His voice is stung with insolence when finally manages to shove me over the doorway. "Please, Stan, just go."

The ice is already forming over his eyes again.

* * *

(Hmm... I wonder if Kyle is telling the truth? What do you think?)

_-BratChild3_


	11. Neapolitan

**Authors Note: **So the way this chapter ends is probably cruel to the reader, but the scene would have been too long to endure comforably without it first being chopped. :) I sowwies.

I'd also like to say that this story deals a lot with anti-semitism, but I want to make it clear that I, in no way, have anything against Jewish people. In fact, some of the most important people in my life are Jewish. That aside, _ANY AND ALL HEBREW USED IN THIS FIC HAS A 99.9 CHANCE OF BEING COMPLETELY WRONG. _lol I don't know the first thing about speaking the language and I won't even pretend to. I have at one point kyle telling Stan he loves him in Hebrew... I used the one for a male saying it to a male... but when I think about it now... it probably means a brotherly love. So maybe I should have used the version that's used when a man says it to a woman? But Stan's not a woman! So confusing!

Reviews? Kudasai?

* * *

**Chapter 11- Neapolitan **

_"Jesus,_ Stan, if you keep eating the way you've been eating today, you'll look like the Fat Ass by next week."

_"__Aye_!" Cartman elbows Kenny in his perfectly toned gut, and the gesture causes part of his Fudgey-Pop to roll out of his mouth. Kenny simply chuckles and idly rubs where he'd been struck.

It was true that I was eating like a porker. I'd stayed the weekend with Cartman and stuffed my face with anything and everything his mom handed us; starting with the large plate of spaghetti and meatballs we'd eaten last night, and ending with the strawberry syrup smothered chocolate-chip pancakes she'd served this morning. Later we met Kenny for lunch at McDonald's, gorged on popcorn and soda in the theater, and snacked on candy in the arcade.

Now we're walking along the wilderness trails through the park, and I bite into the chocolate end of my neapolitan ice cream sandwich, shrugging. "I've got no one to impress. If I have to be single, I may as well be fat, too."

"Here, here." Cartman holds his ice cream out to mine, and we tap them together in a toast to oinker heaven.

Kenny shakes his golden-blonde head in disgust. "Please, Stan, don't conform to the ways of Cartman and become a duplicate lard-ass. I'd have to shoot myself, and then you."

I frown, puzzled, but catch myself before I correct his threat. If anyone could kill themselves and _then _someone else, it would be Kenny.

"And anyway," he continues, snapping the spearmint flavored gum in his mouth. "You know I'd date you in a heartbeat. All you have to do is say the word."

"Faggot." Cartman sneers, and Kenny shots him a look that says he pities his acute retardation. But Cartman misses the silent insult, sucking loudly on his ice-cream before adding, "And what about the _other _twenty-seven people you're banging?"

"Twenty-_six_," Kenny corrects him jokingly, smirking now. I already know he's only banging two people: Kyle regularly, and Wendy on occasion. "And they know I'm only a whore when I'm single. They'd be SOL if Stan decided to snag this delicious piece of ass." He makes an up-and-down gesture with his hands, presenting himself.

"You know I don't want anyone if I can't have Kyle." I murmur around my full mouth, speaking low and ducking my head shamefully.

Kenny frowns disapprovingly; Cartman finally reaches his boiling point.

"God _fucking _damnit, Stan!" He erupts, throwing his last bit of ice cream on the trail. "You were normal for, like, two weeks! I thought you finally realized he was a Jew rat and got the hell over it! Have I taught you _nothing_? What happened?"

"Yeah," Kenny agrees, but he looks apologetic. "I kind of thought you'd gotten over it, too. I mean... you haven't mentioned him in a while now. You've been more active, eating more."

I chuck the rest of my treat into a nearby bush, scaring a family of chipmunks, who scatter in every visible direction. "Well, you both thought wrong." I grumble and shove my hands into my pockets. "I'm not over it. Not even close."

I hadn't told either of them about breaking into Kyle's house, about the rough dose of sex I'd gotten, about waiting to hear from him again like he'd promised. I hadn't wanted to risk him not contacting me because I'd let him down by not keeping my end of the bargain, and I'd done a good job pretending not notice or care about his presence. It was hard, but what kept me going was waiting for the moment he'd contact me again.

But days had turned into weeks, and my patience was running thin. I was beginning to believe he hadn't planned on contacting me at all, but had only promised he would to get me to leave before his French piece of crap boyfriend found out he'd just banged me. If I was right about that, he was an even bigger whore than Kenny, and that was saying something.

"Say you'll go out with me," the whore says, trying again to win me over. "We can take it slow, and eventually you'll get over him. We can work out together. You already have a nice body, but with a few weights-"

"God, Kenny," Cartman growls, cutting him off. "He doesn't want to go out with your whore-ass, alright? And knock it off with the working out shit, too. The only reason you look the way you do is because poor people always have free-weights stacked in a dirty corner of their room. It doesn't make you some expert jock."

"But it makes me sexy as all hell. Am I right, Stan?" His smirk dissolves when I stop dead in my tracks. "Stan?"

They look at each other, then follow my open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare to the small opening in the trees next to the stream.

"Ah... _fuck_." Cartman swears, taking in the horrendously nauseating sight.

Kyle can be seen in a perfect cut-out in between the leafy greenery lining the trail, wedged between Christophe and an oversized shade tree. Christophe's hands are on either side of Kyle's head, his palms pressed against the trunk of the tree, holding him prisoner there. Kyle's hands are resting loosely on Christophe's hips. Their lips are crushed together, moving in perfect synchronization.

"Come on, Stan, we don't need to watch this. Let's walk it off." Kenny's hand falls on my shoulder, trying to steer me away.

It's the push that comes to shove.

Hate overthrows me with a terrifying passion, and I feel my blood run cold as ice. All I can hear is my breath heaving in my chest as I lurch toward the annoyingly content looking couple, seeing red, feeling vengeance explode in the pit of my stomach. My own outraged cry echoes off the trees, the sound swarming in my ears like it's come from someone else. My aim is for Kyle, but Christophe turns just in time to catch me, halting me dead in my tracks. His hands are dry and firm against my bicep's, locking me in place with an iron-clad hold.

"What do you think you are doing?" He asks, his voice and expression calm, yet venomous; creepy like a French version of The Godfather. His accent is thick, his breath strong with nicotine. The black leather gloves he's wearing are fingerless and have metal spikes jutting out of the knuckles. He's about a half inch shorter than me; about a half inch taller than Kyle.

I feel Cartman and Kenny approach on a run, stopping just inches short of clobbering me. Christophe's cold, emotionless eyes don't leave mine for a second, but mine are focused on Kyle; standing behind Christophe's protection, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, petrified with shock.

"You dirty whore-rat!" I scream, slamming myself into Christophe to get to my former friend and lover, but to no avail. Christophe has the hardened physique of a perfectly trained solider.

"I believe I asked you a question." His fingers tighten into my skin.

"Let him go, _Christophe._" Kenny's words are like the low warning growl of a wolf, ready and more than willing to attack.

"Not until I know what this attempted ambush is all about." His eyes look eerily dark, almost black, and he's got circles underneath to match. "When someone is about to take out my lover, it's natural to want to know what provoked such animalistic behavior."

"I don't have to answer to you," I practically spit into his face. "This isn't about you, this is about him!" I nudge my chin toward Kyle, shooting daggers from my eye sockets. "It's none of your goddamn business!"

"He is my business," Christophe states. "And if you've got something to take up with him, then you must go through me."

"Stan, come on!" Kenny's demand booms out loudly behind me, and Cartman follows him up with an almost inaudible agreement.

"If he's your business, then why don't you let him tell you?" I keep trying to get past to Kyle, keep trying to break my arms free so I can wrap my fingers around the pale neck I used to love to kiss and wring it. "Tell him what a fucking whore you are, Kyle! With me, with Kenny!"

Christophe's hazel eyes narrow to slits, cutting smoothly to Kyle's face, which has turned an alarming shade of white.

"Is this true?" he asks, but Kyle's mortified stare is rendered on me, his entire being frozen. Christophe's voice becomes exceptionally louder and more pronounced. "_Is what he says true_?"

"Of course it's true!" I shriek.

"No," Kyle shakes his head, still stunned, still deathly pale. "He's lying. It isn't true. Of course it isn't true! He's... look at him, he's delusional!" His voice becomes louder and more hysterical as he drones on.

"Oh my God, you're such a goddamn liar!" I laugh manically through my anger. "I can't believe I believed you! I can't believe I thought you'd actually live up to your word!"

"Shut up," Kyle shakes his head. "Shut the hell up. You have no idea what you're saying. You're crazy! You're just some obsessed stalker hell-bent on destroying my life!"

"Stalker!" I laugh louder, harder. I can feel big, warm tears sliding over my cheeks, but I don't recall when they'd started. "That's all I am? That's all I've become to you? You left me for some faggy, chain smoking, French fucking pussy! _This _is better than me? Better than _what we had together?"_

I lurch at him again, but this time Kenny grabs my shoulders as Christophe stiffens himself to resist my attempts of overthrowing him, and I'm torn away. Kyle does nothing but stare, white as a ghost. Normally, seeing him that way would send a flight of worry through me. But now it does nothing but fuel my rage.

"I'm sorry I ever met you!" I scream, heaving forward at the waist. Kenny keeps dragging me back, and Cartman helps him now. With the two of them, they pull me easily away, but I continue to shout. "I regret it all! Every minute! Every memory! I wish you were dead, Kyle! I won't be happy until you're dead!"

The look on his face before I'm pulled out of sight is something I'll never get out of my head.

_God_...

If I live to be one-hundred, I'll never get it out of my head.

* * *

Despite an uproar of protests from both sides, I break away from the company of Kenny and Cartman and lock myself away in my own house. Shelly had moved out with a boyfriend months ago, and my parents are treating themselves to dirty hotel sex in Denver for the week. It's the perfect opportunity to indulge myself in some much needed isolation.

I lock the door, I close all the blinds, I unplug the house phone and shut off my cell. I spend an entire two days in absolute seclusion, nursing my wounds, thinking, sleeping. Doing a _lot _of sleeping.

Mourning the loss of my closest friend.

Though his body still lives, the soul I loved is gone. This person, this _robot_, has taken his place. Kyle is gone.

But...

I close my eyes and I see his face, see those cold glass eyes fill with fear and then sharpen to heartache with my vile words.

_I won't be happy until you're dead. _

He looked like he'd been punched in the gut with the hardest blow imaginable, and I wonder honestly how my words could have affected him so much. I wonder what froze his heart. And I wonder... why I still want so badly to unfreeze it.

It's nearing 9:00 now, and it's finally dark outside. I click on the lamps on either side of the couch, squinting against the soft yellow lighting and fall against the plush cushions. I lean my head back, close my eyes and see Kyle.

Always Kyle.

And this time I let the memories run, let him play across my mind, and I don't try to shut it off. I take long deep breaths, hold them in, let it out slowly. The emptiness starts moving in, gripping my windpipe. The first tears start to erupt just as a light rapping sounds on the door. I open my eyes slowly, listening, thinking at first that I'd just imagined it.

"Stan?" He knocks again, louder this time, but still questionably soft. "Stan, are you in there? Let me in. Please hurry."

His voice is urgent, but instantly recognizable. I leap from the couch and fly across the room, opening the door as I unlock it. Kyle rushes in, turning to slam it closed again and locks it with lightning fast reflexes. He keeps turned away from me, his hands frozen on the lock, his forehead stamped against the flat of the door. He's breathing hard, like he'd ran the whole way here.

My first instinct is to yank him into my arms, but I remember his games, and my thobbing heart toughens. "What the hell are you doing here?" I demand, burning holes into the back of his head.

"Jesus... Christ." He pants. "Please just... give me a second... before I have to defend myself."

I cross my arms, drawing my lips into a tight line. I've got to stand my ground this time. I can't let him hurt me again. I can't fall for his games even though I already know I'm still puddy in his hands; his for the playing. All I want is an explanation, and then I want him gone... so my conscious tries to tell me.

My aching heart says otherwise.

"You were supposed to wait until I came to you," he finally says after his breathing becomes less noticeable, still facing the door.

"I waited," I clarify. "For over two weeks. You stood me up."

He turns around, matching my frosty gaze. "You weren't stood up. This is the first night I've had the opportunity to talk to you."

"You mean the first night you could sneak off without arousing your _boyfriends _suspicions."

"That's right," he hisses, seething at my rudeness.

I shake my head, scoffing in disgust to hide the pain and jealousy that causes. It's bad enough hearing it from Kenny, worse still seeing Kyle and Christophe together, but it's a completely different sensation hearing him verbally confirm his romantic status with someone else. "I can't believe what a backstabbing, vile piece of shit you've become."

I feel my back crack against the adjacent wall leading to the staircase faster than a striking cobra. I open one of my eyes to peak at him. His fingers are twisted into the collar of my shirt, keeping me firmly in place, his teeth bared, but his eyes still void of any and all emotion.

"You listen to me, Stan." He slams me against the wall for emphasis, hard enough to show me who's in control, but not hard enough to hurt. I still wince at his violence. "I'm here because pretending like I give less of a shit about you then a piece of gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe isn't working to keep you away! That reason and that reason alone is why I'm willing to risk everything to come here tonight and tell you the goddamn truth before you get yourself hurt. So if you want to hear it, you'd better keep your smartass opinions to yourself until you know the whole fucking story."

I blink, startled. My lips part as I stare at him, trying to find the words. Only one things stands out in his entire threat. "You're-"

"Trying to protect your dumb ass!" He cuts in, giving one last shove as he releases me and turns away.

I straighten my shirt, staring at his retreating back as he moves to the middle of the room, running his open fingers over his face and through his scalp. He pauses for a moment, completely unmoving, then finally releases his breath on a deflated sigh and turns back to me. It's immediately evident he's holding in a shitload of tears.

"I deserve it," he says, gentler. "I deserve everything you've called me and then some. But there's more to it, Stan. There's reasons for... everything. For this." He spreads his arms wide, indicating him, me, us... everything in our lives.

Despite what I'd promised myself not five minutes ago, I move forward, stopping just a few inches shy of him. "So tell me." I will never in my life be able to stay angry with Kyle Broflovski.

The whisper brings his downcast eyes back up to mine. I reach out carefully, pulling his hand into mine. He looks like he's having an internal conflict; but whether he's fighting to feel and losing to callousness, or fighting callousness and losing to his emotions isn't clear.

"I know a good place to start," I suggest, encouraged by his wavering hostility. "Tell me, in all honesty..." I pause. Swallow. "If you hate me or love me. Because really... I don't know."

It's then that I realize he's fighting to stay strong, to stay whole. I can actually see his expression contort, trying hard to stand firm, then tears glass the surface of his eyes, glinting as they gather in the corners and trickle down his cheeks when he blinks.

"I've always loved you, Stan," he cries, his voice cracking with emotion. "God, I never stopped."

I feel my chest lurch with emotion, and we snap into each other's arms, squeezing so tightly that oxygen is hard to come by, but I don't care. Fuck, I don't care. We both tremble with sobs, holding tight and hard and close, not letting go, not easing up. I allow myself to close my eyes, bask in the feel of his embrace, but he pulls back all too soon, pushing my hands away.

"It hurts, Stan." He apologizes, wincing. His breath hisses through his teeth. His movements are careful as he pulls his shirt and holds it away from his skin.

"What hurts?" I ask, my concern growing as I watch the grimaces flitter across his face.

He closes his eyes. "I guess... " He chews his lip, contemplating. "I guess I was going to have to show you this anyway." He doesn't open his eyes, dreadfully ashamed as his hands move to the hem of his shirt. He grasps the white material and eases it slowly up.

I let out a strangled cry as his torso is exposed, trying not to shout or puke or break into a sob. "Kyle." I fall to my knees in from of him, grabbing onto his hips. "What... who... who the _fuck _did this to you?"

I run my hand over his skin, which is mutilated with hundreds of scars in the shape of swastikas. They range from white and faded to the two that are bright and red on the left side of his ribcage; fresh, crisp, and the size of sand dollars.

"Burn marks?" I ask, my voice striking out in a deadly, horrified whisper. He swallows a sob, nodding, and winces when my fingers come too close to the newer of them. "The _fuck_, Kyle? What the _fuck _happened to you!"

I don't mean to scream, but the enormity of this makes me incredibly sick to my stomach, and I explode with tears, swallowing back the vomit rising in chunks up my throat. I instinctively snake my arms around his hips, bringing him into my possession, pressing the side of my face against the lower portion of his bare stomach and squeeze the tears out.

Kyle's fingers slide over my hair, then he drops to his knees in front of me, encircling my shoulders and pulling me close, but keeping space between us where his body has been tormented. "It's okay, Stan." He tries to soothe me, petting my hair.

But it's not okay. I feel crazed, frantic. Deep within, a part of me fills with a sicking desire to brutally mangle the person responsible. And I know in one wild moment what insanity feels like. I know that if I could kill who did this, I would do it without regret.

Kyle holds me that way until I begin to ease up; begin to feel like the world isn't spinning at such a maddening speed. I focus on controlling my breathing, getting enough oxygen, and finally pull back to look at him.

His eyes are cold again, frozen with indifference. I touch his cheek, trying to be strong for his sake. Strong... I finally notice, is what he's trying to be.

"That's why you're so unfeeling," I realize suddenly, mortified at my rash accusations of his aloofness. "You have to be to... just to get through this, you're... Jesus Kyle, who's done this to you?"

He puts his hand to mine and pulls it down, cradling it warmly in his lap. "There's a lot I have to tell you, Stan. And I don't have a lot of time." He looks into my eyes, and I swear I almost see his melt with affection. "Are you ready for the truth?"

* * *

**_-BratChild3_**


	12. Good Again

**Authors Note: **Thanks for all the reviews! I really appreciate them. So this chapter is a lot longer than the others, and there are no scene breaks. So... go potty and grab a drink and some popcorn. That's the best I can tell you. :)

* * *

**Chapter 12- Good Again**

I leave Kyle sitting on the couch with a glass of cold water and disappear into the downstairs bathroom. The minute the door closes, I crumple in front of the toilet and vomit nastily into the porcelain bowl. I try to stop it, but each time I think I've gained control of my weak stomach, my mind conjures up the swastika burns covering his once perfect skin, and another wave of nausea overtakes me.

For all the scenarios I had played out in my head, trying so desperately to find a reason behind Kyle's sudden personality change, I had never stopped to imagine he was going through something so unbearably horrifying. And I don't even know yet how those telltale marks had come to be. No matter who had put them there or what had been used, there was no escaping the excruciating pain he must have been in, the screams that must have echoed in its wake.

More sick.

My stomach convulses violently, the spasms rocking me in protest of the thought. Another wave hits shortly after, and I'm forced to stop envisioning it; I focus on my breathing.

When the last of my nausea is expelled, I fall back on my ass. The white and blue tiles feel cool through my clothes, and they help counter the dizziness, but my hands are shaking from the turmoil of the situation.

Whoever did this to my Kyle is going to pay; in the worst way imaginable, they _are _going to pay. And I'll be special delivering it myself.

But I can't dwell on that now. Kyle is waiting for me in the next room, risking himself in ways I can't even imagine to tell me what has happened to him. And though a part of me is reluctant to hear all the gruesome details, I know I can't back away now. I'll have to put my weak stomach on hold and be strong. For Kyle.

I flush the toilet and grab the ledge of the sink to pull myself up. In the mirror, my eyes are watery and blood shot. I splash my face with cool water and rinse the fowl taste out of my mouth, then think better of it and decide to use the Wintergreen Scope in the medicine cabinet. Thank God for Mom's obsessive habit of keeping dental supplies in the guest bathroom.

Once I'm satisfied with the strong taste of mint on my breath, I screw the cap back on and replace the bottle in its proper position. Next, I remove a bottle of Aloe Vera gel, take one last speculative look in the mirror, and exit the comfort of the small room.

Kyle's still sitting where I'd left him, perched on the ledge of the couch, one hand folded in his lap and the other wrapped around the glass I'd given him. There's a cool breeze coming in through the closed curtains, but I still feel feverishly hot, and I wonder if he's sweating and nervous beneath his carefully poised exterior.

I let my gaze wander over the smooth curve of his throat, tilted slightly as he swallows the water in great thirsty gulps. When the glass is empty, he leans forward to set it on the coffee table. Each movement he makes is careful and deliberate, designed to flow smoothly into the other without any room for being clumsy; a strange gesture considering he'd never had any trouble being lithesome in the first place. Especially in bed.

"Don't think about that right now_,"_ I scold myself, clenching my teeth in a deliberately harsh manner.

Kyle looks up at me then, his face frozen in a relaxed, inexpressive mask. I feel a lump of emotion catch in my throat and wonder if I'll ever hear him laugh again. At this point, it seems futile to even hope for a smile.

"Stan?"

My heart gives a little lurch at the sound of my name on his lips. I swallow to keep it from leaping out my throat and nudge at his empty glass.

"You want more?"

He shakes his head, and I move to sit beside him, keeping a respectable distance. I feel like a threat, or like _he _thinks so anyway, and I don't want to get too cozy and risk him running out on me. But he doesn't flinch or move away, and instead turns his body to face mine. His knee touches mine lightly, and he lets it rest comfortably there.

"What's that?" He asks quietly, almost shy, and gestures toward the clear plastic bottle in my hand.

I unravel it from my side, glancing down to read the filmy blue lettering as if I myself have no clue what it could be. It seems no time spent apart can alter his power over me; when we're in the same room, he'll forever be all that exists.

"Aloe vera," I answer carefully, gauging his expression. He doesn't so much as blink. I pick at the cap, uncomfortable in the silence. "It's good for... burns. I'm not sure when you got... I mean, I thought maybe you'd-"

He covers my hand with his, hushing my broken sentence. He doesn't say a word until I pull myself together and look up at him.

"Thank you." His touch is warm, his voice strong when he speaks.

I swallow hard and nod, once in acknowledgment, again unable to find my voice lodged within the lump of emotion in my throat.

In any normal instance of the same situation, it'd be expected to pass the gel to him, let him apply it in privacy. But this is Kyle, and the thought of giving him any personal space doesn't even cross my mind. As natural as breathing, I reach out to him, touching the hem of his shirt. His hands on mine stop me.

"I..." He lowers his gaze, worry lines forming between his eyes. The words barely leave his lips. "I'm ashamed."

The whispered confession confuses me for a moment. Then slowly, sullenly, realization sinks in. It was his Jewish nature to think anything that happened to him fell on his shoulders; everything bad was shameful, even if it wasn't his fault.

I pull his chin up, forcing him to look at me. My other hand doesn't let go of his shirt. "Kyle, it's just me. It's just... your best friend. You don't have anything to be ashamed of. Not around me. Not ever."

It's amazing how strong and sure the words come out. They're so easy to believe, and it's so easy to forget everything between the _buts _and the _what-ifs _and the _used-to-be's _when I'm looking in his eyes.

His hand releases mine cautiously, and my own departs from his chin. I reach out to him again; kindly, patiently pull his shirt up and off, careful not to hurt the raw skin underneath. He lifts his arms slowly, allowing me to slip if off completely.

I snap the cap open and squirt a fat dollop in my hand, warming it with my fingers before bringing it to his ribs.

He tenses before my fingers even touch, readying himself for the inevitable sting about to come.

"Nice and careful," I assure him, touching just to the left of the first scar, the biggest one. It stares back at me menacingly, dark and rose colored, blistering on one side. The surrounding skin is puffed up and flushed an unhealthy shade of irritated pink. I trace the prominent shape; two lines bent at the ends, crossing each other in a notoriously evil pattern. Each line is made up of seven individual circles, forming the pattern as a whole. Cigarette burns.

My lips clamp into a hard line. I try to swallow down as much of my mounting anger as possible, not wanting to upset Kyle more than he probably already is. But on the inside, I'm already plotting my revenge. I don't normally like to point my finger without proper evidence, but the fact that cigarettes had been used only makes my first suspect look that much more guilty.

And then some tiny corner of my brain flickers to how completely dead Kyle's become to emotion, and I wonder with sickening uneasiness if he's done this to himself.

I swallow back more vomit and gently trace the jagged, crusted lines on Kyle's skin, leaving a trail of soothing goop behind. His breath hisses through his teeth, his body tensing beneath my touch, but he calms when I finish the actual burns and move to the less tender areas around them. I keep my eyes trained on his skin, careful to keep it as painless as possible; I don't linger any longer than necessary, though there's an undeniable ache within that never wants to stop touching him.

"Okay, you're all set," I recap the bottle and set it next to his empty glass on the table. When I look back at him, I'm startled to see his gaze rendered on my face. He's watching my eyes, studying them.

"I thought... I'd have a million things to say when I..." His voice, a thin piece of glass wrapped in velvet, brittle and plush with tenderness, fades against a sigh. Moisture beads the corners of his eyes, brightening the shamrock colored irises. He gives a half-laugh; breathy with exhaustion, ironically sad. Everything harsh melts away, leaving behind a look so tender that another sob catches in the base of my throat.

"You thought about me?" I croak out, hardly able to believe this is real.

His fingers slide over mine and curl into my palm, giving a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Every day. Every _minute_. There wasn't a moment that went by that you weren't a part of me. Through everything, you were my happy place. I know that must sound..." He shakes his head; takes a breath.

"I got through it all; the loneliness, the guilt, the sex, the burns because you were always here." He touches his fingertips to his heart, tracing a light circle against the creamy skin. "I swear I could feel you with me, protecting me, helping me stay strong. I could see what it was doing to you, and I... God, I'd just close my eyes and try to communicate with you through my thoughts." He closes them now, laughing bitterly at the memory. "I'd tell you over and over to keep holding on, to not lose faith in me. I promised I'd find a way back to you somehow. No matter what it took, I'd make this up to you."

He brings his hand up to my face, gingerly swabbing away the hot, fat tears drizzling in a slow march down my cheeks.

"What happened?" I whimper, shuddering against the warmth of his touch. I lean into his hand.

His face hardens again, growing grim and spiteful. His hand drops back down to his knee.

"It's Christophe," I decide, trying to keep the anger down. "Isn't it?"

Kyle lowers his eyes. He glares poisonously, but he seems to be seeing something from memory rather than what's right in front of him. He grumbles something beneath his breath.

"What did you say?"

"And Cartman," he hisses, louder, curling his fingers into the thin material of his pants.

"Cartman?" I gasp, feeling my lungs prickle at the sudden rush of oxygen.

"Christophe _and _Cartman." Kyle practically spits their names, as if talking about something unclean, unholy; something so wicked that the aftertaste it leaves behind is more fowl than licking the menstruating ass of a particularly stinky baboon. "The fucking French scrotum sack and his fat fucking side-dildo, Eric Dickface Cartman."

My vision shrinks to a pinpoint, and the sound of my breathing fills my ears, as if listening to it through a stethoscope. It couldn't be true. It just _couldn't. _Cartman of our childhood, who we'd spent most of our lives with? Cartman, who we'd always known was a vile piece of shit but never considered marginally dangerous? Cartman, who at times had been the only one to keep me afloat during this past year I'd been nearly drowning?

"_Cartman," _I murmur, disbelief rocking me to the core. "It... can't be true."

"Oh, it can," Kyle laughs, and the sound is that of a person on the brink of insanity, dangling one foot over the ledge. "We were idiots, Stan. We never gave that vulgar piece of shit the credit he deserved. He's the very essence of evil. He's Satan's fucking _demon spawn._"

"Why..." I shake my head, try to refocus on his perfect face again. "Why didn't you go to the fucking police?" I demand, angry at him for a reason I'm unsure of. "Why didn't you _stop _him?"

"You don't think I _tried_?" he shoots back, snarling. "Give me a little fucking credit here, Stan, I'm not a goddamn pussy."

I grab his shoulders, yanking him forward. His tough-as-nails expression wavers a little. "This isn't about how big your fucking balls are Kyle!" I shout. "I don't give a flying fuck if you're a pussy or not! It doesn't matter if _you _could stop him or not! Why didn't you get _help_? Why did you just _let him do it_?"

He smacks my arms away in one fluid motion, leaving behind a throb that I'm sure will bruise later. "Don't you _ever _fucking touch me that way again."

There's a violence in his eyes I've never seen before, even in the moments he'd beaten Cartman's ass to a bloody pulp as a hot-tempered child. Something is there that hadn't been a year ago; something that thirsts for vengeance and craves the blood victory would rain. I have no doubt he'd shred my face to ribbons if I crossed him again.

I can feel the shock on my own face, the trill of fear racing up my spine. I lean away slightly. "I- I'm..."

"Oh God," he clutches my hand between his, bows his head and squeezes his eyes closed. "I'm turning into him." He whispers, mostly to himself, and looks back up, pain replacing the cruelness. "I'm so sorry, Stan. Please don't... be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you, Kyle." I promise; though in truth, part of me is terrified of this new side of him. He can't know that, though. Not if he's going to trust to tell me everything that'd happened. I square my shoulders. "But that's what I don't understand. You've always stood up for yourself, Kyle. You never let anyone push you around. Especially not Cartman. You weren't afraid of him."

"And I'm _still _not."

"Then why-"

"Christophe." The name hangs in the air like the lingering smoke of a recently squelched house fire, thick and dreadful and suffocating. "He's Cartman's fucking puppet-master. Without him, Cartman has no power over me."

But I'm still confused, maybe more so now than just moments before. "But when you're with Christophe... you look... so..."

"If I'm nice to him, he's nice to me." Kyle explains simply. "And the more nice we make, the more he trusts me. The more he trusts me, the more freedom I get. The more freedom I get, the more time I have to figure a way out of this fucking mess." He turns my hand over, studying each curve and line, running his fingers smoothly over the sensitive skin. The movements are loving, gentle caresses that completely defy his biting tone.

I _never _want him to stop.

Despite the situation, despite everything; he's unknowingly melting my blood down to liquid fire, shorting out my breath, making my heart race. I'm a fucking slave to his touch. I always have been.

With a dignified breath and a mustering of self-restraint, I continue. "But the police-"

"Are fucking imbeciles," He says pointedly. It doesn't escape me that his tone and scornful words are a faint echo of the _Mole _I had known long ago. The fucked up kid with the fucked up life and the fucked up way of thinking. Like it or not, part of him has rubbed off on Kyle. "They wouldn't be able to help me, Stan. No one can."

"There's a way out of everything, Kyle."

He's shaking his head, laughing again. That manic chortle that seems to taunt death itself, to beg for it. "You don't know Christophe like I do. _No one _knows Christophe like I do. Not even his repulsively oblivious mother."

"Help me understand." I'm leaning forward again, returning his unmindful little touches. "Tell me everything, Kyle. Please. How did... how did you get trapped into all this? When? How did I miss it?"

"He's very good at what he does." More ice over his tone; more scathing, scalding acid staining the bells of his voice. "And what he does is _doesn't get caught_."

He blows out a tight breath, the kind usually reserved for birthday candles, and leans his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. He's still holding my hand, and his grip is fierce, nearly painful.

"I know you remember _Ze Mole _from _Le Resistance. _Fucked up kid, we all knew that, but he was willing to fight with us for justice. He was good at that sort of thing then and he's great at it now. But he's not a kid anymore, Stan, and whatever innocence he may have had back then is ancient dust." He pauses, breathing in tight uncomfortable puffs. "Now he's a hitman."

"Hitman?" I repeat dumbly. "You mean he kills people?"

"Dozens every month."

I stare incredulously at him, wondering how he can be so calm when he says it. "Who does he kill?"

"Everyone. He kills anyone if the price is right. I finally stopped asking about the victims after he told me he'd just killed an entire family of seven. The youngest child was only one year old." He lifts his head then, cracking his eyes open to look at me, laughing, but tears erupt along with the sound. "One year old, Stan. The kid probably couldn't even fucking walk yet."

I can't offer any comfort right now. I'm stunned by this revelation, frozen in terror. Kyle shakes his head, closing his eyes in mourning for the child's lost life.

"You have to understand that he's _good at what he does,_" he emphasizes this, giving each word equal space. "He _has _to be. He doesn't get caught, Stan. He knows everything about forensics'. Not only does he know how to erase every molecule of evidence that he was ever at the crime scene, he knows how to leave _false _evidence that get other people convicted almost before they even get a chance in court. There's people on death row, innocent fucking people who are mourning the loss of a loved one, waiting to _die _because of him."

He sniffles, blinking his teary eyes, and rubs his neck tiredly.

"Kyle I..." I put my hand on his shoulder, swallowing. "I don't know what to say." Which isn't really true.

_And you've been fucking this guy? _I want to scream, but I bite my tongue, clamping down hard to keep the words back.

Kyle nods absentmindedly, understanding my shock. He swallows the fog of tears filming over his eyes. "Stan...?"

I shudder at the whispered way it ghosts from his lips. "Yeah?"

"Will you..." He swallows dryly. "Will you hold me?" He doesn't look at me, but keeps his eyes averted. He's ashamed again for showing weakness, for asking what he thinks is such a _huge favor. _"I know I don't have any right to ask you for something so-"

"Shhh." I put my finger across his lips, silencing him. A tingle of desire spears through my arm and shoots across my body, but I push it away and wish I didn't have to.

He's stiff as I fold my arms carefully around his shoulders and ease him into my embrace. I lean back, resting my head on the back of the couch. Kyle slides his arms timidly around my waist, snaking them slowly across my skin. He winces at first, adjusting to appease the burns on his ribs. Once he finds a comfortable position, he slowly loosens up against me, snuggling deeper into my arms.

He's a perfect fit.

"How's that?" I whisper, rubbing my lips across the top of his auburn head. His arms tighten closer around me as he presses his face against my throat. He breathes deep; once in, once out. "Kyle?"

"Just give me a moment," his voice is rough with tears, but the heat of his breath and the movement of his lips against my skin send white-hot desire rippling down my stomach. I swallow a quiet whimper of longing, kiss the crown of his head and cradle him closer, grazing my fingertips along his bare spine. His body quivers with emotion, and he reaches a pale hand up to my face, blindly caressing my cheek. I don't hear him cry, but I can feel the hot flow of tears pattering down my shirt. I pull him in tighter, a gesture of promise that I won't let go.

"Tell me the rest?" I ask after a few minutes, murmuring the request into his hair.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling, then takes a few deep gulps of breath.

"I don't know how long Christophe had been watching me," he finally says, "But last year, when everything _good _started happening between you and me, I'd noticed that he always seemed to appear places, just kind of... materialize whenever I was alone. It wasn't a lot because I was always with you."

I can hear the sad smile in his voice; and I smile too, remembering those precious times.

"I was always so preoccupied with thoughts about you... about _us _together, that I didn't stop to think something was fishy about it. I never told you because... well, because you always left me at a loss for words. Nothing existed when I was near you and I just didn't think of it. All I wanted was to be kissing you, touching you."

I chuckle softly, sadly, loving the sound of that although it feels like he's twisting a blade in my gut.

He gives me a squeeze. "Christophe was always so nice to me. He was... so _funny. _I know it's weird to say, but he's got this playful side, and he used that to win my trust."

Jealousy swirls inside me, licking at my heart like bitter flames. I didn't want him to like any part of this guy, but he does, and it burns.

Kyle continues, oblivious to the sting his words had inflicted. "It was after that second time you and I made love... do you remember that? Sweet Jesus, it was intense." The pitch of his voice rises, sounding awed at the recollection.

"How can I forget?" I ask, my eyes glazing over as the harmony of our moans that day -desperate, loud, and ecstatic- surface my memory.

"I had thought that's what tipped him off. I was walking back from doing _that_. My clothes were mismatched; I mean, shit, half of them were yours. My lips were swollen from so much kissing, my voice was raspy, my hair was a nest, and I had the stupidest fucking smile on my face that just wouldn't go away." I feel his smile against my throat, but even from that much, I know it's brittle. Then it fades away.

"He drove up beside me in this shiny new car," he whispers, fear lacing the words. "I didn't _know _him then, not like I know him now, and I just didn't see how angry he was. God, when I think back it's so hard to remember how I didn't see it, that _murder _in his eyes." He buries his face against my chest and shudders at the memory.

"It's okay," I soothe him, allowing him another moment to collect himself. He turns his head again, uncovering his mouth, but tries to pull himself in tighter against me.

"He told me he'd give me a ride home. I got in. Shit, I wasn't _thinking _about anything but you. I didn't even notice he was driving in the opposite direction of my house. _'Tell me why you are smiling. Come, what's made you so happy'?" _

I'd have reeled back in shock if my head hadn't been supported by the couch. He sounded so much like Christophe; the accent was perfect. They'd spent far too much time around each other, and the realization made me hug Kyle possessively against my chest.

"I didn't understand the question at first," he says. "When he asked again, I didn't even think. I just said _Stan_. _'Ah,' _he said. _'He is your lover, no_?' I told him you were. And then I proceeded to tell him everything I loved about you, which is no small list, I assure you. He listened carefully, patiently, smoking a cigarette the whole time. I hadn't even realized he'd drove up the mountain and we were parked between a bushel of trees."

"What happened then?" I press, stamping a fleeting kiss on his forehead, understanding by the way his body had tensed that this was a difficult part of the story for him to relay.

"And then he told me I had exactly one week to break it off with you." Kyle rushes this all on one breath, each word sharp with suppressed tears. "I didn't... I mean, I fucking _laughed. _I thought it was a bad joke, you know? Like he was mocking me for droning on and on about how perfect you were. And then I realized where we were, and I asked him what was going on. He... grabbed my chin and nearly cracked my neck with how roughly he turned my head. He repeated himself, stating clearly that I had one week to break it off with you. When I asked him why, he said, '_You see, Kyle, you belong to me now. If you don't get rid of that fucking piece of vermin scum-" _He breaks off suddenly, sobbing.

I rock him again, murmuring into his hair, telling him it's okay. He tries his best to toughen up, to suck back the tears and hold them in long enough to get it all out, but it still takes some time for his voice to steady enough to speak again.

"_If you don't get rid of that fucking piece of vermin scum_," he repeats, leaving out the mocked accent this time. "_I will kill him, and you will watch me do it_. And then to prove he meant what he said, he gave me my first swastika." I feel his eyelashes flutter closed against my skin. "And then he fucked me."

Right after we had made love. I had been fucking floating on a cloud, smiling like a lunatic, the happiest son-of-a-bitch on the planet, and Kyle was being tormented.

And it was all because of me.

I feel sick. Dizzy. It's too much to take in. But Kyle... _God. _Kyle had _lived _it.

"At first I wanted to go to the police, but you know how fucking stupid they are. So I thought I'd do _something _to get some evidence on him. Fool-poof evidence so that something could be done. I couldn't use the burns because he had made sure they were at an angle that looked like I'd done them myself. It didn't take long to figure out how dangerous he really was. And the more I found out, the more I realized there wasn't any way out. He was always watching me, so I couldn't get help from anyone. And when he wasn't watching me, Cartman was. I still don't know how Cartman got involved. All I know is that he was suddenly Christophe's spy. And then Christophe brought me back a few souvenirs from his 'trip.' Pictures of his fucking victims; before, during, and after the murders had taken place. And, Jesus, Stan, all I could see in those pictures was you. I knew then that he _could _and _would _do it. So that night, I told you I didn't love you anymore. I thought it was the only way to keep you away from me. It was the only way to protect you."

"God, Kyle." I close my eyes, crying. It had all been so obvious back then, but I was blind to it. I didn't see it because I'd never realized such a fucked-up thing could be happening to him.

I feel him stir in my arms, and suddenly his breath is on my face. "Stan, look at me."

I open my eyes slowly, Kyle coming into view. He strokes my cheek lovingly, his eyes concerned. "None of this is your fault, okay? You didn't know."

"I _should _have known."

"There wasn't any way you could have." He kisses my forehead, my cheek, my nose. "Every time I so much as looked at you, I'd get another _warning._"

"A swastika?" I ask, and he nods robotically. "But why swastikas? Was that Cartman's idea?"

"I don't even know if Cartman knows about them," Kyle says, frowning thoughtfully. "Christophe claims to be in love with me, and at the same time he can't stand me. And the reason he can't stand me is because I'm Jewish."

I look at him, my face contorted in confusion, and he smiles sadly.

"You see, Christophe comes from a long line of Jew-haters. His great-grandparents, _all _of them, were French Nazi collaborationists during the holocaust. They made sure to pass the hate to their children, who passed it to their children, until it finally reached Christophe." He shakes his head, his eyes far away again, lost in his mind. "He's... I almost feel _bad _for him. He's so conflicted when he looks at me."

His words hold a ring of compassion, and I feel anger burn through me. "You have _feelings _for him, don't you?"

I see the guilt flash in his eyes before he turns his face away. "You don't spend a whole year fucking someone without developing some sort of emotional attachment."

I throw him off of me so suddenly that he doesn't even have time to gasp before he hits the other side of the couch. "I can't fucking believe you!"

He cringes at the venom in my voice. "It's not anything like what you're thinking, Stan. You know me. You know I even have compassion for the Fat Ass after everything he's done to me. It's in my _nature _to see the good in people, no matter how fucking microscopic it may be. And Christophe isn't always cruel."

"He fucking murders babies!"

"I _never _said he wasn't destined for hell. I never said he wasn't seriously fucked up. But part of me can't help feeling a little sorry for him -and that goes for everyone wicked who's ever lived- because there's good and bad in every single one of us, and it saddens me that people let the evil in them take root instead of the good. It's grief for the loss of an innocent soul, not actual feelings for him."

This calms me a little. In truth, I know exactly what he's talking about. But my expression must still be jealous, hostile; Kyle's face saddens.

"Stan, I don't even _like _the guy. I'm in fucking love with _you_. I always have been. And I'm in love with you for all the reasons that you aren't him." He takes my hand again. "Look, that car accident I was in was no accident."

My head snaps up, my eyes widening in mortification.

"That's right," he says. "It was a punishment. For calling out your name in bed."

"_What_?" I hiss. "He _did _that to you?"

Another quick nod. "I called out your name in bed because I was always pretending it was you. It was the only way I could tolerate it because I can't fucking stand it when he touches me." He sucks in a deep breath, eyeing me cautiously. "Now do you still want to pout that I wish he were a better person?"

My anger is completely gone. I stare at him now, again horrified, but also ashamed. How could I act like such a baby over something that held no significance when so much was in the line of fire here?

"I'm sorry, Kyle." I whisper, lowering my head.

His voice softens. "It's okay. I guess It'd set me off if you seemed to have compassion for someone that vile, too."

Our hands link together again, and I slither my thumb over the softness of his skin. "Do you enjoy it at all? The... sex with him?"

Kyle seems to hesitate a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "I tolerate it. It's something I've learned to live with, something that has to be done although I don't particularly want to. Like mowing the lawn. I don't look forward to it, if I didn't ever have to do it again, I wouldn't miss it."

I consider this, letting it sink in. "And Kenny?" I ask.

His lips part in surprise, and he looks away, uncomfortable. "You know about that, huh?"

"Yes," I have to grind my teeth to keep the emotions down. "I know about that."

Kyle sighs wearily, exhausted. "For some reason, Christophe isn't wary of him. He sees no threat and it doesn't bother him when we hang out together. Because of that, Kenny isn't in any danger. Unless we got caught in the act, of course." He adds this last part grudgingly, not wanting to upset me again.

"Kenny and I are friends; we love and respect each other. Because of all that, he makes the perfect candidate to go to for no-strings-attached intimacy with another person. I can't explain to you how dire the need for that kind of contact is when you're being fucked every day by someone whose idea of love means control in its darkest form. It's a relief to be treated like an equal when you're sharing your body that way. It's more like an escape, a drug. Kenny isn't love or pleasure to me. He's morphine."

"You hate it that much?" I ask, blinking at his descriptions.

He laughs again, that same hollow laugh that's becoming all too familiar. "It's not like when you and I made love. Shit, I never thought you could die from something feeling too good, but I swore I was going to that day. The pleasure was almost too intense to handle." He pushes my bangs to the side, his smile fading again. "It's not good anymore. It's never good. It's always like some fucking nightmare and I can never wake up soon enough."

My hand finds his knee, grazing it softly. His eyes refocus on me again, instantly alert at the touch.

"It can be good again, Kyle." I tell him, whispering. "I know it can be good again."

He stares back at me, his eyes darkening with unmistakable lust. "With you it would be."

I was already getting hard. And the fact that I could see his breathing becoming heavier only made me want it more. I reach out to one of his curls, hanging with a careless charm around his face, and twist it lovingly in my fingers.

We move forward at the same time, crushing our lips together, taking only a moment to find the perfect position in each others arms. I part his lips with my tongue, whimpering at the sweet taste of him. But there's still a hint of reluctance on his side.

Holding the kiss, I lower him slowly back and adjust myself comfortably on top of him. I cradle his hip in one hand and his jaw in the other, holding him still beneath me. My tongue glides blissfully against his, and I can't help the moan that escapes me when he starts kissing me back; shyly at first, then bolder, hungrier. His arms lock around my neck, holding me against him. Our kissing becomes increasingly passionate, wild; our tongues moving in immaculate synchronization together.

I break away breathlessly, trailing hot kisses down his jaw and over his throat. He gasps when I suck against the milky skin, tasting every inch as I work my way further down. I trail back up the other side of his throat and scratch my nail gently across one of the pink nubs on his chest. He lets out a moan this time, loudly, and slithers his hands down my chest and around my back. They sneak their way further down, stopping at my ass and pulling me hard against him. I pause to swallow a moan, then move further down. His breathing becomes dramatically heavier as I tease the sensitive, pert circles on his chest with my mouth; licking, sucking, nipping.

"Stan?" He asks urgently, lifting his head and stopping me when I place the tip of my tongue in the shallow indention between his ribs.

I stare into his panicked eyes, trying to blink the cloud of passion from mine and properly register what wrong move I had made. "What's wrong?" I ask, more breath than sound.

His eyes grow more concerned. "I don't like... I don't want my stomach touched."

I blink at him, still confused at first, then glance down at his torso.

_Swastikas. _

The majority of them cover his stomach, but a few white scars spill up his ribs. I circle a finger over it, then bless it with a soft kiss.

"Stan, don't," he begs, tears springing to his eyes.

"Listen to me, Kyle." I touch his face, waiting until he reopens his tightly closed eyes. "I love every part of you. I _want _every part of you. Scars or none, you'll always be perfect to me. Please, Kyle, let me make it good again. Let me make it all feel good again."

He blinks away the tears, relaxing against the couch, tenser than before.

I use my fingers first, gliding them up and down his stomach in sensual circles, over to each side, down to the top of his pants. I stick my finger just inside and slide it from one hip to the other, smiling when his breath catches. Next I use my mouth, dropping kisses down to his belly button. I swirl my tongue around the perimeter and then dip it inside. His breath hisses through his teeth as I plunge in and out, soft and carefully. My fingers work open his pants, and I direct my kisses downward, nuzzling my face between the parted material. When I lift my head, his fingers dig into my hair.

"No, don't stop," he gasps out.

I smile up at him. "Not even to kiss you?"

He takes only a fraction of a second to consider this, then eases up and pulls my shirt off when I crawl over him. Our lips reconnected, moving again in a lustful dance. He slides one of his legs between mine, rearranging himself so that the front of our bodies touch just right. I move myself slowly against him as we continue our kiss, swallowing down each others moans, but we break it shortly after, needing oxygen.

"Does that feel good?" I whisper in his ear.

"Yes," he cries. "Oh, God, yes."

I move harder against him, pressing my open lips to his neck, breathing deep against his skin. He squeezes his legs together, hugging my thigh tightly between his. Then he tilts his hips up, then down, up, then down.

I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle an especially loud grunt. "Kyle, if you keep doing that, it's all going to be over."

"Mmm," he whines helplessly, bucking his hips up harder, then stills suddenly. "No. Stop, stop, stop."

"What?" I ask, lifting my head, hoping to God he isn't going to tell me this is a mistake.

"Not like this," he says. "I want you inside me."

I blink down at him, a little surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." He traces his finger against my lips. "I need this, Stan. I need _you._"

Our kiss is sweeter when we come together again, and I take my time, loving him deeply and thoroughly, making sure each touch gives him the uttermost pleasure possible; making it last as long as possible.

When I feel I can't hold back any longer, I grit my teeth, press my face into his neck, and make him scream my name.

--

TO BE CONTINUED...

_-BratChild3_


End file.
